


Consider the Lilies

by bonecharms



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Self-Harm, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonecharms/pseuds/bonecharms
Summary: “He asked me once, why we only ever show things in their prime - always roses in bloom rather than the wilting once they’ve been plucked.” She raised her glass theatrically, affecting an erudite tone, “‘For every apple ripe in Adam’s hand, where are the paintings of the rotting core?’” A sigh. “But no one wants to think about consequences, do they?”“There is beauty in everything,” the pale-eyed trader across from her said. “Even decay.”After a Legion victory at Hoover Dam, a captured courier is given to Vulpes Inculta. // A long and angsty look at love, deception, and the strength of women.
Relationships: Female Courier/Vulpes Inculta
Comments: 87
Kudos: 198





	1. House of the Rising Sun

**Author's Note:**

> A long long time ago I wrote a fill for the Fallout Kink Meme called ‘Hallelujah’, and a very sweet individual asked for a sequel.  
> I'm now a little bit older and a little bit wiser, and when I stumbled on that request in my drafts it got me thinking. So, in my best Mr New Vegas voice: if you’re out there anon, this one’s for you.
> 
> Before we begin: please mind the tags. (A list of trigger warnings by chapter can be found at: vaulties.tumblr.com/ctltriggers)

you fit into me  
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook  
an open eye

Margaret Atwood

* * *

In the first nights, she doesn’t sleep. She lies awake, still in the dark, barely daring to draw breath for fear of waking the man next to her. In the mornings, when they give her bread – _panem est_ they tell her; the words stick in her throat – her jaw aches, and she realises she has been grinding her teeth. Even knowing, it is difficult to stop. Dusk to dawn, prone and waiting, tongue pressed to the side of her mouth to stay the pressure. There are no doctors here; if she cracks a tooth it will abscess and spill poison into her blood. Sepsis is a painful way to die, she knows, and slow. Agonisingly slow.

Eventually she is too much like the walking dead to resist: everything aches, her muscles pulled tight and taught and her mind floating in and out of reality. The lure of a soft warm bed becomes too tempting in the frigid air of the apartment (he keeps the windows open through the day and sometimes through the night; _to clear the dust, to clear the senses_ ) and reluctantly she allows herself to settle down and fall away. It’s an hour, maybe two, before she is screaming, tears hot on her face, hands clawing desperately for a collar that is no longer there. The sheets tangle around her, thin but tight and feeling too too much like hands and ropes and catching her when she tries to bolt. There’s a thud as she falls unceremoniously to the floor, bundled in on herself, sobbing and struggling to draw breath into her cramped lungs.

“Gods, woman. Stop.” Her hands are taken from her, nails pressing bloody crescents into his palms instead of her arms. “Look at me,” he commands softly, and she does: his eyes are those of a coyote and she feels trapped between his jaws; instinctively, she moves to pull away, but he won’t let her stand. “It’s alright.” In the dim yellow light his features are softer; he looks as tired as she feels. He draws circles on the backs of her hands and mumbles platitudes in an attempt to pacify her. _You don’t have a collar. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe here._ The words settle around her as a cloud of gentle moths, and she thinks vaguely of how nice it might be to believe him, to swallow his sentiments like honey, to pretend that he cares. Regardless, it’s an effort on his part that should be acknowledged, so she tries very hard not to flinch when he reaches to inspect the thick red welts where she has savaged herself.

His sigh is thin. “They’ll think I’ve throttled you.”

 _Would you?_ she wants to ask, but even in her exhausted state thinks better of it. Her heart is slowing, gradually winding down as an old watch, and she doesn’t fight when he straightens the sheets and presses water into her hands and clicks off the lights.

***

It was cloudy the day of the auction, humid and stifling; there was an itch in the air that called for thunder, a heavy rain to wash away the sins of the scorching summer. But the only crack was not from the heavens but from the podium; the gavel brought down over and over and over. Thirty denarii. Fifty. A hundred. Wood smacking against wood and they’d shuffle forward, hands and feet bound, eyes cast to the ground, closer and closer to the gallows. 

There was so much noise. It was endless and buzzing, disconnected but overwhelming all the same. She knows, now, that the words being thrown around would have been things like _virgin_ and _literate_ and _good teeth_ and _breeding stock_ but then it was just harsh barks, nonsense Latin, not the soft and paced mumblings of a priest at winter mass. There was something raw and rancid about it – the way she could suddenly hear past their words without distraction, cutting through meat and bone to their boisterous tones and loud laughter, the auctioneer smacking his lips on every sentence in his own crude form of punctuation.

There were only a few left in front of her when she was pulled from the line; no words, just rough hands on her shoulders, turning and pushing and silently warning. Part of her was scared, terrified really – being singled out never signified anything good – but another smaller part was disappointed: in the back of her mind was a coiled black snake, a morbid desire to know her worth in this new, foreign society. Would they have fought for her? It was of little consequence now. The rest was no more than a dream; a play with another acting her part. She was weighed and measured and prodded and probed until her body no longer felt her own; Mojave dirt scraped ruthlessly from her skin, tangles banished mercilessly from her hair before it was worked into tight braids that made her head ache. There was no point in resistance; they’d learned that early on. Bravery brought pain and nothing more.

Veronica was brave, though. Braver than anyone.

“Not all of them work, right?” she’d said, her eyes steeled, mouth set into a thin line. There was nothing any of them could say to change her mind. “I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

And sure enough, the next time the guard opened the gate the scribe had charged at him like a wild thing, knocking him to the ground with strength unseen. She ran like a shot stag, trailing blood and stumbling as her legs tried to find their way under her, to take purchase over the crumbling earth as dust curled up around her ankles. It was twenty feet before the collar started beeping. Another five before it went off. Veronica was brave or stupid but it didn’t matter in the end – she opened her lottery ticket and found a thick black mark in the middle. She was, and then suddenly, horribly, she wasn’t.

That’s the worst nightmare, the one that leaves her writhing on the cold floor of the en suite with bile clawing up her throat. It would be so easy to give in. To hit her head over and over against the cracked porcelain tiles, to hear the smack and feel the buzz take over and dull the knife lodged between her ribs. But she doesn’t dare. Not after the last time, when her _husband_ had found her lying bloody and dragged her to the clinic as the sun began to crack over the horizon. It was six stitches and a look that said he did not believe her paltry excuses; a silent understanding between them that he would not tolerate it again.

Sometimes she settles for biting her fist, cramming her knuckles to her teeth and pressing down and down until her nerves scream and her hand numbs. But it’s not enough; the pain is too small and too sharp, it doesn’t burn, doesn’t consume as she needs it to. When she closes her eyes she still sees Veronica crumpling to the ground – she fell down into herself and it was remarkable, really, how quickly life could evaporate. It was instantaneous.

They should have stopped her, pinned her to the ground if they had to. There were enough of them to hold her back. _But maybe_ , a small voice whispers in the night, as she lies and wishes that she too had had the strength to run, _Veronica would rather be dead._

***

It was a few hours from being plucked from the line that they took off the manacles that had plagued her for weeks. Her arms protested when she tried to move them apart from one another, from the position they had been stuck to since that fateful day in the height of summer; the muscles wheezed as she tried to roll her shoulders, to rub feeling back into her tender wrists. She felt like a dog suddenly unchained, too cowed to move without its master’s word; when the guards opened to the door to a building that might once have been a hotel, she entered without question. 

It was a dim hallway, as hallways often were in these kinds of rundown spaces, with black mould spotting the ceiling where water had run through years before. Each breath drew iron into her mouth, bitter and hot, and beads of sweat bumped over each vertebra as they travelled down her back, sticking itching red material to her skin and matting strands of hair to her neck. It felt like an eternity before she was allowed to meet her gatekeeper: a stout man with a thick beard and a red face who spoke in English rusted from disuse.

“Your wedding band,” the blacksmith rasped, fitting it tight against her skin, “It separates you from the slaves.” In another life, she might have laughed at the irony. As it was, she stood expressionless, tilting her wrist to see the metal shine in the afternoon light. It was odd, to have marriage thrust upon her so suddenly; her identity lost in an instant. _Fausta_ was her new name. She was told it meant lucky.

Finally, after she had been marched back and forth across the Strip so many times that she was sure her feet had blistered, she was pushed into the creaking elevator of the Ultra-Luxe, rattling and jolting as it ticked through the floors. First. Second. Third. _Ping_. Your new residence, madam. It took a full minute for the taller guard to open the door to the suite, the key straining and threatening to snap in the stiff lock; waiting, she counted the circles printed into the beige carpet and wondered how long it would be before she could sleep. She hoped they’d sedate her. They did that sometimes, to the disruptive ones, those too pretty or too fragile to knock out with fists instead of needles. It would be nice not to think.

Eventually, the deadbolt relented and the lights fluttered on and the room was lit up in all its impersonal glory. She had another half-minute of freedom as she was led through the living space – a desk with a terminal, a dark sofa with its back to the room, a table with a moulding cup of coffee, a counter with a small fridge – and then she was once more trussed up in chains, this time locked to a radiator in the bedroom. Then they left, and she was alone.

Slowly she slid down the wall to sit against it, arms pinned above her head. The air in the room was thick with dust, and each time she sneezed her shoulders jarred painfully. Eyes swimming, she twisted to inspect the band on her wrist; she had assumed the marks on it were of some generic Legion sentiment, but looking at it now she could see it was a name: INCULTA stamped into the metal in small, precise letters. Sitting there as the sun faded from the room she read the name over and over, desperately trying to place it in her memory. She thought back to the NCR posters plastered on every wall, the lists sent out to every bar and hotel west of the Colorado, Mr New Vegas’s endless tirades on the latest atrocities. Not for the first time, she wished she had paid more attention to these things. Was he the one behind Nelson? Forlorn Hope? The ranger stations? There had been so many incidents in the months leading up to the Dam that it became hard to keep track, places and names and numbers all melting into one big bloody blur.

Wait a second – _Nipton_ , right? That sketchy little town south of Primm that anyone in their right mind had avoided. Freeside was buzzing with it for weeks: everyone had a friend of a friend who’d met the guy who got away. _He said the guy in charge was wearing a dog pelt, in this heat! They strung them all up on crosses, said it was a warning. I heard they burned the mayor alive, can you believe that?_ And for a fortnight, the fear had been palpable: residents polishing their guns and sharpening their knives, side-eyeing strangers and threatening to knock the teeth out of anyone who came near their wives or husbands or kids. She and Arcade had sipped whiskey sours in the corner booth of an unnamed speakeasy, whispering conspiratorially about it, the blond cracking open peanuts and throwing them to the air to catch in his mouth.

“I passed through there last week!” she’d said, affronted. “That could’ve been me!”

Arcade missed, again, and the nut fell to join the graveyard rapidly accumulating on the scuffed wooden table. “Shame. I’d have liked to get the gossip first-hand for once.”

She swatted at him, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “How about some concern for me, huh? You know what they do to women.”

He rolled his eyes, “You weren’t even there!”

“Yeah, but I _could’ve_ been.”

“That’s a pretty big hypothetical.” Finally, he managed to hit his target and chewed on the nut for a long while, pondering. “Think they’ll ever make it up here?”

“What, the Legion?”

“Yeah.”

“Doubt it. Nipton was a shithole. We’ve got securitrons coming out the wazoo.”

Arcade had been about to respond, but the conversation was cut short by a crash and a thud from across the room. They both craned their necks to see that someone had gone head-first into the jukebox, and judging by the look on Big Deb’s face, their concussion was soon going to be the least of their concerns.

They hadn’t spoken about it for the rest of the night. And after a month, it had been completely forgotten; just another spot on the map with a little red cross over it. Things like that happened all the time out here. You couldn’t let yourself get caught up with it.

In the darkening suite, Fausta tipped her head back against the wall and shut her eyes. How foolish they had all been; how blind. Even as the noose tightened around their neck, sightings of scouts and patrols circling ever closer, they had still believed that it wouldn’t happen to them. It couldn’t. Vegas was untouchable.

There was a faint click from the next room as the apartment door swung shut, and she jolted upright, metal clanging against the radiator as she struggled to right herself. The tunica was crumpled and frustratingly short, but in pressing herself right against the wall it sat half-way down her thighs. Despite the best efforts of the women who had scrubbed and dressed her, the pale skin of her legs was striped with bruises and cuts, with thick yellowing scabs on each knee where she had been pushed to the ground countless times. Combined with her sallow complexion and increasingly gaunt features, they would – she hoped – serve to make her suitably unappealing.

Then the bedroom door opened, and her heart dropped to her stomach as Vulpes Inculta entered the room. Without her glasses his figure was blurred, and there were a few wonderful seconds where she could almost convince herself that she didn’t recognise him. But as he stepped into clarity, there was no doubt.

“It’s you,” she said hoarsely, heart pounding in her ears. She thought she might faint.

“It’s me,” he replied simply, brushing against her as he unlocked the bonds. They fell to the floor with a clatter, and he crossed the room to rummage wordlessly through the wardrobe. The silence was stifling; she could feel it weighing down on her shoulders and filling her lungs.

“Can I let my hair down?” she blurted out suddenly, hesitating a moment before tacking on, “Please?”

“Wear it as you like.” His tone was flat, disinterested, and he didn’t look at her as he briskly undressed and strode past her to the bathroom.

Air sputtered through the pipes as the taps were turned on, and she could only guess at how long it had been since the room was last occupied. Weeks, at least. Leaning against the wall, she pulled the pins from her hair one by one and placed them carefully on the wooden nightstand, combing her locks out with her fingers. Tight waves fell around her face as she tried unsuccessfully to massage away some of the tenderness in her scalp, and it did nothing to settle the shaking of her hands. Christ, she wished they had knocked her out. Being awake and untethered made this so much worse – made her feel so much more complicit, so much more _pathetic_. She should have been trying to break down the apartment door or rooting through his belongings for a razor, not standing stupid and waiting to be told what to do. But she couldn’t bring herself to move, and she stayed there until the water cut off and her new husband stepped back into the room, dressed simply in worn pyjama bottoms. His hair was damp and longer than she remembered, now hanging low over his forehead.

“Sleep, or don’t,” he said, with a careless gesture towards the bed. “It makes no difference to me.”

Staring at the metal cuffs left pooled like a nest of serpents, she swallowed before asking quietly, “Are you going to – chain me?”

“Would you like me to?” he snapped, irritation bristling through his words.

“What – no! No, I – uh,” she trailed off, panicked, and his eyes ran over her in cold assessment.

“If you don’t plan to behave like an animal then I don’t see the need to treat you like one. Now do you have any more pressing questions, or can I go to sleep?”

Suddenly unable to articulate, she shook her head, and paused a moment before perching on the bed next to him, curling as close to the edge as she could manage. He didn’t take long to fall asleep. Thin moonlight slipped through a gap in the curtains to give his sharp face an ethereal glow, and she studied it: the long eyelashes, the aquiline nose, the cracks beginning to set into his skin. His throat, white and exposed, and she considered briefly what it would feel like to dig her hands into it, to have his warm blood running slick over her skin. He shifted suddenly and she flinched, and in a second the word that had spent the evening dancing on her tongue realised itself. _Searchlight._

As the hours slid by torturously slowly, there was only one thought in her mind, looping over and over again.

_This man has killed thousands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See vaulties.tumblr.com/tagged/ctl* for update info and related content (including an upcoming fanmix!)


	2. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos! The response to this has been so encouraging (´ ∀ ` *)

My ribs show. What have I eaten?  
Lies and smiles.

Sylvia Plath

* * *

The air in Vulpes’ office is dusty and dry; the heat in the small room sweltering. With sweat beginning to trickle down his collar, he reaches to the lamp on his desk and finds it almost burns his hand. He would prefer to work by natural light, but while windows line the wall, the grime plastered to them is so thick that barely a crack of sun can get through; standing, he runs a finger along the surface and though his skin is painted black, the glass is barely smudged. With a grunt, he moves to shift the panel upwards from its frame, but it will not budge; it has long since been painted shut. Clicking his teeth in frustration, he resolves to have someone scrub every surface in this room before the week is out; the amount of mould alone is enough to rot a man’s lungs.

With the rapid pace of events in the last few months, there had been barely time to scrape the previous occupant’s name from the door, let alone redecorate. The previous head of the Frumentarii – Felix – had been taken out by a ranger just two days after their victory at Hoover Dam. It was only a few hours later that Vulpes was given news of his promotion, and suddenly, instead of managing just those assigned to the Strip, he had found himself in charge of the entire network.

The consequent weeks were gruelling, and he had had little time to think of anything other than the many tasks in front of him. Truly, it had been a stroke of luck that he had come back to Vegas in time for the auction. He hadn’t expected to see his courier there; he hadn’t even planned to survey those for sale. After long days of travelling, he had wanted nothing more than to avoid the whole debacle and go straight to his quarters to rest. But one of those assigned to the Strip—Adrian maybe, or Augustus—had sought him out, and whispered that he had caught sight of a woman he had seen on Inculta’s arm more than once, in those long luxurious days before the Dam. Vulpes had consigned the matter to him, dropping a bag of coin into his palm and leaving to attend to his other duties. And as it transpired, those duties were never-ending.

Resting his head in his palm, he ponders his wife. In the weeks since his return, it has been an endless string of orders: aloe to soothe the sunburn that had blistered its way over her arms and chest, new glasses sent for from Flagstaff, rich dresses to replace the ragged tunica she had been presented in. A hundred expenses he has poured over her, and still she is sicklier than when she was first brought to him. The cuts and bruises were quick to depart, but weight continues to fall from her form like boiled meat from the bone.

Repeatedly, he has expressed his concern: _I’m worried about you. You look like I could break you in half._ Repeatedly, she has rebuffed him: _I’m not hungry. I’ll be sick if I eat._ Last night he snapped, finally; after half an hour of watching her poke listlessly at the food he’d placed in front of her, he threatened to have a tube put down her throat if she continued trying to starve herself. She glared daggers at him and didn’t speak a word for the rest of the night. But she ate, a little, and that was a start. That, he can work with.

He is pulled from his thoughts by a sharp rap at his office door, and he jolts upright; he thinks to wake himself with the tea on his desk, only to find that it has gone cold.

“ _Ini_.”

Vulpes pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stay the headache creeping up behind his eyes; it seems to double in intensity at the sight of Alerio’s smug face across his desk. For all his time in the West, the spy’s English is better than his Latin, and Vulpes quickly addresses him in the latter in an attempt to wrangle the upper hand.

“Ave, Alerio. How does the day find you?”

“I am well, sir, and you?”

Vulpes shrugs, gesturing him to take a seat. “The same. Has much passed?”

It takes little encouragement for the bright-eyed soldier to launch into a droning rendition of their work of the past few weeks: Freeside rebellions easily quashed; remaining members of the Families flushed out like rats; budgets running thin. As Vulpes knows well from his years in more territories than he can count, irrespective of faction or faculty, budgets are eternally running thin.

It does not take long for him to tire of Alerio’s report, and he interrupts him with a wave of his hand.

“ _Intelligenti pauca,_ ” he says sharply, a reprimand which he has often had to pass to his inferior; concision is a concept which continuously seems to elude him. “Make your point, Alerio.”

“Things are progressing as planned. Refugees are flooding west like spilled ink; the NCR is becoming overwhelmed. I have several officers in their midst, some with families.”

“And what of Picus?”

“We have yet to hear from him, sir.”

Vulpes nods, tapping his pen against his desk. “Very well. You are dismissed.”

Alerio rises, but pauses a moment, switching to his easy Vegas English. “I don’t mean to speak above my station sir, but you seem… distracted. It might be prudent for you to take some time away, with someone else to watch over your affairs.”

Vulpes raises an eyebrow; only a few weeks in the job, and daggers are already being drawn. “You are speaking above your station, Alerio. Now go.”

It is another half hour of shuffling papers and staring at paragraphs until they wriggle across the page like tadpoles before Vulpes finally admits defeat. Locking his office behind him (a gesture more than anything else; he knows better than to leave anything vulnerable there), he decides to stop in at the clinic on the way back. It is a short walk, and one which he takes the time to enjoy; with a breeze on his face and the dying embers of the day soaking gently into his skin, he can almost forget the thick clouds troubling his mind.

The clinician, Marius, is a tall and dark-skinned man whom Vulpes has brushed shoulders with many times over the years. It has only been two weeks since he relocated from Flagstaff, and the letters printed on the glass door of his office are sharp and fresh.

It takes less than a minute for him to answer the door, a smile breaking out as he catches sight of his old acquaintance.

“Domine Inculta!” he exclaims in jovial Latin, ushering Vulpes into his office. “It has been too long.”

He gestures to a faded red armchair under the window (which he notices, irked, is cracked open) and Vulpes sinks into the worn fabric, his back twinging as he settles.

“How long has it been now, two years? Three?”

“I couldn’t say,” the younger man responds with a small smile. “It has been a long time since I was last in Arizona.”

“And much has changed; you are a different man than I knew then. How is your little wife?”

Vulpes shakes his head, leaning back into the soft cushions. “I swear she will drive me to madness, Marius.”

The older man laughs, sweeping a pot of coffee from his desk and rooting through the drawers for another mug. “That is married life, I am afraid.”

“She is a trial, more so than I had ever hoped to know.”

“What is she, obstinate? Frigid?”

The frumentarius sighs. “She is hysterical. Every night she wakes screaming and clawing at herself. It seems endless.”

The doctor’s brow furrows, and he sets himself in the chair opposite. “How do you respond?”

Vulpes makes a helpless gesture. “I clean her wounds, I give her water, I talk to her as one would a child until she calms. I snatch a few hours of sleep before it begins again.”

Sucking his teeth pensively, Marius pours out coffee for each of them. “It is unfortunate, but with what has happened, I’d say it is to be expected.”

The fingers of Vulpes’ right hand find his temple as the other reaches for the mug; his pulse beats heavy behind his eyes. The coffee is tepid and unpleasant, but he is grateful for something to wet his throat in the dusty enclosure of Marius’ office.

“Give her time, Vulpes. She will settle; they always do.”

“And how long?” he snaps, frustrated. “It has been weeks since I slept well.”

Marius reaches across to clap a hand on his shoulder companionably. “Woman are as any wild thing; patience is key. A month or two and she will be eating from your hand.”

“To get her to eat at all is a struggle,” he responds dryly, swallowing swathes of the dark liquid and grimacing as the bitterness crawls over his tongue.

“You are not the first to have difficulties here and you will not be the last. Speak to Canyon Runner if you must; he is well-versed in taming shrews.” The older man leans back in his chair, tapping his thumb against his mug thoughtfully. “For now, there is not much I can offer you.”

“Anything you have, I will take,” Vulpes replies, placing his cup on the table. “I am falling asleep at my desk; vultures are circling.”

“I understand.” Marius stands and pauses a moment before choosing one of the many greying filing cabinet lining his walls, the ancient metal drawers screeching in protest as he rifles through.

“Here,” he says, drawing several glass vials and slotting them into a small case. “Use it sparingly.”

Vulpes nods, shaking the doctor’s hand as he turns to leave.

“I will remember this,” he says formally, and Marius smiles.

***

Dinner is normally an arduous affair, but after last night’s conversation it takes only a little prompting for his wife to sit neatly at the table and accept his offering of rice and vegetables (he has learned not to waste meat on her, as she will do little more than push it aside and complain of it upsetting her stomach). Still, she eats as though she has been sentenced to death, her eyes cast down forlornly, her hands moving as though through water.

He asks about her day; she glares. “I was here,” she says shortly, stabbing a carrot with such animosity that her fork clatters against the steel plate. A few moments pass in silence before it becomes apparent that that is the end of her opinion on the matter.

Tempting as it would be to remind her of her place, to ask if she would rather be back in a slave pen or sent to another officer, he stays his tongue. Metal is always more pliable once it has been warmed.

“I thought I might take the day off tomorrow,” he broaches, looking for a response which does not come. “There’s a market down on the boulevard. They have traders from all over.”

A small noise is the only acknowledgement that she has heard him; stoical, she continues placing tiny half-forkfuls of food into her mouth and chewing for minutes at a time.

“I’ll buy you some books, if you like.”

Her eyes flick up to meet his. “You couldn’t leave me alone with them,” she says bitterly. “I might get a papercut and bleed to death.”

Vulpes’ face tightens to a scowl.

“Well, maybe if you stopped acting so petulantly, I could allow you more freedom,” he snaps in return. “I would enjoy having glassware again.”

Her fork clatters to the table as she pushes her chair away. “I’m going to bed.”

A glance at his watch tells him it has just passed eight, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as she stalks from the room, closing the door behind her with just a little more force than necessary. He had hoped to pass just one evening without an argument.

As he begins to clear their plates, there is the sound of the shower running and, to his dismay, he realises she will be planning to use up all the hot water. He sighs; there is little he can do about it now.

When he enters the bedroom, the curtains are breezing over the floor as pale spectres, and it takes them a moment to settle after he closes the windows. Flopping to his back on the bed, he gives silent thanks for the crisp chill to the air; his headache is beginning to squeeze hot hands down his neck. He hopes she won’t fight. He is so tired.

He is beginning to doze when she steps back into the room, dark hair dripping water onto her shoulders as she regards him warily. Tentatively, she sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from him as she runs a comb through her hair; he pauses before rolling to his side and propping himself up on an elbow. Swallowing, he tries to keep his tone as gentle as he can.

“I’m worried about you, _carissima,_ ” he says softly. “You’ll make yourself ill if you keep on like this.”

The wooden comb _thunks_ to the nightstand, and she begins to work her hair into a plait.

“I spoke to Marius today, about your – sensitivities.” He reaches to place a hand on her arm, but she shifts away. “He prescribed this: it’s a sedative, but a mild one, a low dose. It will help you to sleep through the night.”

Hair tied neatly away, she stands to draw back the thin covers; without a word, she lies supine, eyes closed.

“It’s safe,” he attempts, “I promise you. Your health–”

“What do you want me to say?” she interrupts, turning to look at him.

He blinks. “I want you to agree to this.”

“You’ll do it anyway,” she says, her voice sharp, “But fine, I agree. Did that make you feel better?”

His mouth twitches into a frown, and he considers hitting for her insolence; she has stepped past her mark several times this evening alone. But when he looks to her eyes, they are those of an injured hound, and he knows she is only lashing out at him from fear and fatigue. This small outburst can be forgiven; she is not in her right mind, after all.

“I’m doing this because I care about you,” he says, taking her arm as gently as he can and swabbing the crook of her elbow. She makes no reply, turning her face away as he draws the clear liquid into the syringe and ticks the plunger down; when it pierces her skin, she does not flinch.

He leaves her there as he moves to the en suite, where he douses his face and body with freezing water and shivers as he washes away the grime of the day. Catching himself in the mirror, he realises how exhausted he has become; he looks older, haggard. Running a hand over his jaw he brushes the beginning of stubble; it has been a few days since he last shaved. He sighs. His razor, like most things he owns, is locked away a heavy trunk in the wardrobe, and he decides he is far too tired to fetch it. Maybe in the morning.

Fausta is curled into the blankets when he emerges, and he takes a moment to appreciate the tranquillity of the scene; the beauty of his wife. True, the pale skin of her arms is patterned with angry red scratches, and her eyes are ringed with dark smudges, but these things will pass, in time. Looking upon her here, face free of worry, chest gently rising and falling, he can once more recognise what he saw in her all those months ago.

Settling between the cool sheets, he stretches his aching muscles, cracking his neck and back before relaxing. A glance tells him she is probably near sleep, and he decides to risk slipping an arm around her waist. She tenses a little at the contact, but does not protest, and he draws her closer to him, his chest against her back. Tucked into him like a switchblade to its handle, he is struck by how delicate she is, how warm; impulsively, he leans to press a kiss to her cheek. As his mind begins to drift in the dark, he thinks of how right Marius was in his advice. Though no man can say how long it might take, things will always fall to their natural place.

***

For all its shimmering lights and Chairmen in fresh-pressed uniforms, the bathroom of The Tops casino was just as littered with graffiti as any Freeside junk bar. It had been a long evening of not-quite-espionage: what had started out as a plan to case the place and keep an eye out for Benny had quickly devolved into an excuse to dress up pretty and have a night on the town.

Head slumped onto her hand, the woman they called the Courier squinted at the declarations of love and hate sprawled across the walls. _Fuck NCR. Shelly luvs Amanda._ Then, in looping blue script: _She who knows others is wise; she who knows herself is enlightened._

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Sighing, she stood and straightened her skirt, pressing a hand against the stall door to support herself as she realised that she was just a little bit more tipsy than she had expected. There had been no trace of Benny there or anywhere else, but they had already paid the cover charge for the evening; might as well enjoy Bruce Isaac’s dulcet tones as he crooned Elvis into the microphone.

When she returned, Arcade and Veronica had moved onto their third round of Harvey Wallbangers (to her disdain, she noticed that _neither_ of them had gone to the courtesy of ordering her another drink) while Arcade waxed lyrical about his wilting love life.

Slipping into the seat next to them, she snatched Veronica’s drink to take a sip from it, and grimaced; the orange juice was beyond stale.

“I thought you were going with Mike?” she asked as Veronica swatted at her.

“What, Fat Mike?” Arcade asked, horrified.

“No, no,” she struggled, waving a hand over her face. “Cross-eyed Mike.”

Arcade frowned, looking down soulfully into his drink. “Don’t call him that. Anyway, it didn’t work out.”

“That bad, huh?”

The doctor’s expression changed to one usually reserved for gossip from the Followers’ ‘confidential’ STD clinic. “His technique was awful,” he admitted, downing the rest of his drink. “It was like kissing a gecko.”

The blond flicked his tongue in and out of his mouth rapidly, and the two women with him laughed and groaned in equal measure.

“Better luck next time, Arcade,” Veronica said consolingly as she stood to head back to the bar. “Next round’s yours, okay?”

Less than an hour later she had been abandoned: Veronica had gone off to play pool with some tough-looking guys with tattoos, and Arcade was busy mooning over the bartender, leaving her to nurse the remnants of her Sarsparilla alone as the band slowed, stringing out the opening bars of _Can’t Help Falling In Love._

“Hey there, miss. Can I buy y’a drink?”

She started a little at the intrusion; she hadn’t noticed the pale-eyed man sidling up to her side. Turning to look at him, she considered a moment. Normally, she preferred girls, but he was cute, in a sharp sort of way, and he seemed nice enough. It wasn’t like she had anything else going on that night.

“Sure. I’ll have a Cuba Libre.” At his look of confusion, she winked and whispered loudly, “It’s a rum and cola, hon.”

“Right,” he said a little sheepishly, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. He gestured to the bartender for two drinks and cleared his throat. “So, what brings you around here?”

“Just having a night out on the town. Makes a change from Freeside, you know?”

“You local?”

“Uh, yeah I guess. I grew up near here. Where you from?” The tender slid her drink across to her and she sipped it, the ice cubes clacking against her teeth.

“A little town up in Wyoming. You won’t have heard of it, it’s out in the boonies.” He smiled, and she saw that his front teeth overlapped just every-so-slightly in a way that made her heart flutter.

Composing herself, she said, “Wyoming, huh? Long way from home.”

He chuckled. “That’s the price of business.”

Emboldened by the alcohol, she dropped her voice to a sultry tone. “And what kind of business would a guy like you have around here?”

“I trade sugar beets,” he responded cheerfully, apparently oblivious to her intentions.

She blinked. “What?” She had expected a corny pick up line, not a real response.

“You know, beets. Pull ‘em out the ground, mash ‘em up, dry ‘em out. Stick them in your coffee.”

“Huh. Guess I never really thought about where sugar came from.”

“You city slickers never do,” he said with a wink, and she tried to keep her wince internal. Trust her to get stuck with the bumpkin who didn’t know how to flirt.

A clatter across the room confirmed her suspicion that Veronica was still deeply engrossed in her game of pool, and despite her best efforts to catch Arcade’s eye, his gaze was fixed solely on the grey-haired and supremely muscular man on the other side of the bar. With it becoming painfully obvious that jumping ship would not be an option, she reluctantly resigned herself back to the conversation—at least for as long as it’d take her to finish her drink.

“So, you down here often?”

“Every few weeks.” He paused a moment to sip his drink. “Might have to change up the route soon, though. Things seem to be getting tense around here.” He glanced around the room and dropped his voice a few notches, pulling his vowels to the back of his throat in that way northerners did. “Pretty little thing like you, ain’t you worried about those _Legion_ turning up?”

“They got about as much chance of getting into Vegas as I’ve got of holing up in the Ultra-Luxe penthouse,” she said drily.

“Hm. Still, you outta be careful out there. You got a man lookin’ out for you?”

She choked on her drink at that, spluttering ungracefully. Bless him, he found his way there in the end.

“No,” she said with a heavy sigh, “I’m out there in my apartment all on my own.”

He clicked his tongue. “Really? No family round here?”

Jesus Christ. This was getting painful.

“Nope!” she said shortly, “Just me! Alone. With no one to warm my sheets.” Oh, that was tacky.

She was beginning to give up on ever getting more than smiles out of him when he shifted closer to her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Well,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t want you getting cold out there.”

The little voice in her head which had been insistently chanting _kiss me kiss me kiss me_ was finally silenced when he pressed his mouth to hers, and _oh_ he was good at this—so much better than he was at flirting. Unconsciously she snaked her hands up his back to tangle them in his cropped hair—surprisingly soft for a man—and sighed lightly against him. When he pulled away, she could feel a flush in her cheeks, and when he smiled she knew she was gone.

A few drinks later they had moved to a shady corner booth—she was grateful to have a little more privacy, as they were now pressed so close that she was practically sitting in his lap.

“You should pin your hair back,” he said, brushing the heavy fringe from her forehead and passing his thumb over the silvery crescent that sat to one side. “You’re hiding your beauty.”

She laughed and pushed his hand away, fluffing her hair back into place. “There’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.”

He looked a little startled, snaking a hand around her side as if afraid she would leave. “I didn’t mean—”

She pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “Stop talking so much, sweetheart.”

And there was that smile again, as warm and slow as a sunrise. “There’s just so much I want to know about you.”

“And we’ve got all the time in the world to us.”

It was impossible to know how long had passed, but his hands were just beginning to slip under her shirt—she was desperately trying to remember if she was wearing her nice bra—when a throat cleared behind her and a hand tapped her shoulder. She turned to see an unimpressed Veronica, now sporting a fraying biker vest which she could only assume she had won in the game.

“Hey, we’re going,” the scribe said in a bored tone.

“Oh, sure.”

Her trader looked disappointed as she reluctantly pulled herself away. “Do you have to leave?”

“They’re sleeping on my floor, so yeah.” She rubbed at her forehead, trying to sober up enough to walk back to Freeside. “I’ll see you around?”

He gave her a rueful smile, one hand running light circles over her back. “I gotta head back up tomorrow. But if you give me your address, I’ll send you a postcard.”

At first she thought he was teasing her, but her heart skipped a little when she realised he was serious. She knew better than to give a stranger her apartment number, but despite herself she grabbed a napkin and scribbled a few digits onto it. _What the hell, huh?_

“That’s my mailbox,” she said with a grin, and pecked him on the cheek before leaving.

It was a week later that she found herself in the cramped sorting office on Elm Street, the air sour with sweat and hot with bodies: no matter the time you turned up, it was always crowded—folks picking up their mail, collecting their pensions, paying their bills. Pressing past a uniformed NCR officer, she strained on her tiptoes to open and scrape out the mail from her box. The rolling ladder had gone missing a month prior, and even before then using it was to risk your foot going right through the long-rotted wood. The little metal door squeaked on its hinges as she rummaged around, finding only a few items. Most of it was the usual waste of paper: loud promulgations printed on waxy scraps that left black smudges all over your fingertips. A leaflet from the NCR warning against food waste ( _Better pot-luck under Kimball today than humble pie under Caesar tomorrow!),_ a pamphlet from the Old Mormon Fort advertising their daily dental clinic ( _Gum disease: know the signs!),_ and then—unexpectedly—a postcard printed in coral and blue, with postmarks from Cheyenne and a little stamp with a meadowlark. She couldn’t help the smile that bloomed across her face upon seeing it, and she tucked it surreptitiously into her pant pocket; she was grateful that it was a folder: the postmistress always knew everyone else’s business even before they did. It sat flush against her thigh as she walked back to her apartment, a secret brushing her skin with every step.

There wasn’t much space on the card, and it contained only a few short lines: a comment on the northern weather, a proposal to take her to dinner when he returned, and a final sentence that made her blush. It read:

_The stars out here are beautiful, but not quite so lovely as the ones in your eyes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ini - enter  
> Intelligenti pauca – he who understands does not need a long explanation  
> Carissima – dearest, most beloved


	3. Newton's First Law

Put out the light,  
and then put out the light.

Othello

* * *

“Get up, darling.”

It is a soft awakening—a hand on her cheek, a voice near her head—but an unwelcome one nonetheless. Fausta’s mind is full of clouds, and she keeps her eyes shut as she brushes her husband away. “I’m tired.”

Outside the window, a grackle squawks, and she grimaces as another begins to chirrup back. Relentless, obnoxious birds. They will be going for hours now.

“Get up,” Vulpes says, more sharply this time. “I have things to do today.”

She knows better than to argue or to ask questions; no answer ever comes straight. Flopping to her back, she rubs a hand over her eyes in an attempt to rouse herself. Last night was the second dose of the sedative, or maybe the third, and the first time in as long as she can remember that she has slept so soundly. But when she tries to move, her limbs are heavy; she stands to stumble to the bathroom and feels as though she is walking through mud.

Cold water on her face helps a little; cold water down her throat helps a little more. After a few minutes, she can see straight enough to slip into the dress he has laid out for her: cotton dyed in cornflower blue, with a pinched waist and a skirt that flows to her ankles. It is demure and loose enough to keep her cool, but regardless makes her feel like a Puritan.

When she steps into the living room, Vulpes looks her over appraisingly; he nods in approval, and she feels heat rising to her cheeks. He does not say much as they leave; there is no clue as to what the day will hold, and it turns her stomach to speculate about it.

The door closes behind them with a soft _click_ , the deadbolt eventually relenting with a _clunk_. The corridor is dark, and it takes Fausta’s eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of natural light; before she realises, Vulpes is three steps ahead of her, marching down the hallway with the same resolve he seems to apply to everything in his life, big or small. She expects to leave the building, to traipse across the Strip or at least to be taken to another floor, but they are only a few doors down when Vulpes stops to rap sharply on the wood.

To her surprise, it is a woman who answers: maybe five or ten years older than her, with hair the colour of autumn leaves and the beginnings of crows’ feet around her eyes. Her smile is kind, but Fausta still finds herself shrinking into her husband, clinging to his cold familiarity.

“This is Iulia,” Vulpes says slowly, nudging her forward as if she is a child on her first day of school. “You will stay with her today.”

She parts her lips, but no words will come out, and before she can think to form them her husband is brushing a kiss to her cheek and patting her arm.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he says, and he is gone, rounding the corner and disappearing before she has time to blink.

She swallows, feeling suddenly exposed and unsure; her hands twitch towards pockets which are not there, and fall to her sides.

“I speak little English,” Iulia says apologetically, gesturing Fausta into her apartment. “I have to gather some things, and then we can leave.”

The apartment is much more homely than her own: the walls are a deep red, and there are patterned rugs on the floor; the desk sports several blurry sepia photos in cracked frames, but she is too far away to make out the subjects. She feels comfortable enough only to hover in the doorway as Iulia gathers a wicker basket filled with fabric.

“Exeo, Lucca,” she calls through to the next room, and a man’s voice responds; Iulia barks something and the two bat back and forth; Fausta assumes they are arguing until she catches the older woman roll her eyes and smile.

“My husband,” she explains as they leave the apartment to head down a back staircase, “He thinks he is much funnier than he is.”

Iulia chatters like a songbird; Fausta’s Latin is still poor, and most of what the older woman says goes past her. She catches snippets here and there, nouns, verbs, but by the time she has caught one and opened her hands to examine it, there are a hundred more sweeping low over her head. It is frustrating in some ways, but mostly it is a comfort, a distraction. It makes a pleasant change from the sterile silence of the apartment, where all she has for company is the occasional sparrow landing on the balcony.

When they reach the basement, the air is thick and humid; it sticks Fausta’s hair to her forehead and the back of her neck, thin spider legs plastered to her skin. There are mahogany pigeonholes on the walls, all with ancient brass numbers tacked to the top. Iulia passes quickly down the wall, sliding out the basket already present in the box marked 327 and neatly replacing it with the one she has carried from the apartment.

“You bring your washing here,” she explains, deliberate and slow. “The next day it will be ready for you.”

Fausta nods, looking to her own number where there is indeed a basket waiting, and taking it in hand. She doesn’t ask who the ones washing the clothes are. In the abstract, she knows it will be servants or slaves, old or young, left to scrub cloth with lye until their eyes sting and their knuckles crack and bleed. But she knows, too, that if she thinks too much on it she will break down herself. So she follows Iulia, and listens intently, taking mental note of which pieces should be washed when, which should have names embroidered to the collars and which should not. She determines to focus on the present, to push any other thoughts to the back of her mind and not to question how she will live with herself. There is no time to dwell. There are things to be done, so many things.

A wife is her husband’s greatest asset, Iulia tells her. Men might know to fight and bleed and spit, but they have no idea how to run a household or to balance finances or how quickly food spoils. “Lucius can train and order troops,” she says with a laugh, “But you ask him how much firewood we need for the winter and he will be completely lost.”

Iulia says the words with warmth, but the idea is chilling. Taking the scraps handed to her, Fausta tries to piece together a picture of her future: a brick house in Arizona with servants, sunshine, fresh baked bread and ripe fruits. It is herself that she sees in the scene, but not a self that she recognises.

“How long are you—?” Unable to find the word, she taps the band on her own wrist.

“Eleven years in November.”

It takes a mixture of both languages and a series of hand gestures, but eventually Fausta manages to ask, “How did you meet?”

 _“_ At a party, back in Arizona,” Iulia says with a distant look in her eyes. “He asked me to dance, and I have danced with no one else since.”

They walk in silence for a few beats before the words leap unbidden from Fausta’s lips, “Are you happy?”

“Very.”

Beside her, Iulia stops, noticing the tears which have begun to carve a hot path down Fausta’s cheeks.

“It is difficult to begin here, when things are in flux,” she says gently, putting a hand on Fausta’s arm. “It will be easier when you are in your own home; things will run much more smoothly. You will have time for yourself again.”

Fausta nods, afraid to speak around the lump in her throat. She does not believe things will ever be easy, regardless of where she is—but as the weeks pass, she does feel herself beginning to settle. The routine helps.

She trails Iulia like a shadow, and that’s what Lucius begins to call her: _parva umbra Iulie_. He says it with a genuine smile, but it sets her jaw tight nonetheless. She thinks it demeaning, reductive; she hates it until she is alone and passing through the Strip, and men she does not know spit _lupa Incultis_ at her feet with a laugh. While the phrase is unfamiliar to her, the sentiment is more than clear; brushing past them with her cheeks burning, she decides that Lucius’ nickname, while misguided, has a certain charm.

Weekly, Fausta goes to the shell of the NCR embassy, which has long since been repurposed to a postal office. Inside, the walls have been whitewashed and the floors scrubbed; posters torn away, flags taken down and buried—for all their barbarism, the Legion would not see the two-headed bear burned. At one point, Vulpes took it upon himself to explain it to her: how a state’s flag should be interred as part of its history; a reminder that no governing force is permanent or infallible. There was more, but she had stopped listening very early into the speech. A flag was a flag and death was death; the specifics didn’t matter in the end.

The man behind the counter has a name Fausta cannot make out, and white hair sprouting wild from his ears and eyebrows. He speaks in a voice barely above a whisper and moves so slowly that when he reaches to a high shelf it seems he might collapse in exertion. Usually, there is no mail marked to Inculta—most of Vulpes’ letters are sent straight to his office—but Iulia always has at least one envelope to collect and another to be sent to Flagstaff, where her two children are looked after by her mother.

Iulia is pragmatic and calm—she says herself that her children are best placed where they are—but it is clear that she misses them ardently. Each letter is handled with a reverence not often seen in the Mojave, every envelope neatly pressed and placed in a drawer in the apartment bureau. Most of the words on the page are the looping script of an older woman, but at the end of each letter there are the smudged names of her children, expressing love to _mater et pater,_ and occasionally a few sentences from the older child, Olivian. In one Fausta is shown, he expresses his wobbly-handed delight at finding a toad in the garden that morning. A house with trees and a pond and children: such a stark contrast to the drab and dusty Ultra-Luxe that it is no wonder so many of the officers are itching to leave.

Once, on an afternoon spent wandering the fruit market, Fausta tries to ask after the fate of Iulia’s daughter; the woman seems amused by the question, if slightly confused.

“She is only three. Her main ambition is to track through mud wherever she can find it.”

It is difficult to tell whether Iulia has understood the true intention of her question, but Fausta does not have the vocabulary to fully express it. After a moment to gather her thoughts, she presses, “But what about when she is grown?”

“Then she will be educated, will marry a good man and have a family of her own.”

It is such a simple, obvious answer, as if she had asked the colour of the sky. She longs to dig deeper, but before she can summon the words, Iulia has swept to a table laden with tea leaves; without pausing for breath, she begins to bargain for two ounces: one perfumed and speckled with violet petals, the other earthy and dark.

“Fifteen would be robbery,” she snaps, and Fausta tunes out the conversation.

Silently, she runs her fingertips over the jars set out in neat rows, the back-and-forth washing over her like waves. Unscrewing the lids one by one, she raises them to her face to inhale them: orange, strawberry, mint. Spices that sing of distant places; barks and roots that promise to hurt or to heal in equal measure. Each label marked out in neat graphite lettering: Latin, English, a price in three currencies.

After a minute the negotiations are resolved, the trader scoops the leaves into two small fabric bags, tying them tight at the top.

“Ten denarii for the two,” Iulia says, slotting them into her satchel; Fausta nods as if the numbers mean something to her. “You need to haggle with them, or they will not respect you. This time he asked for fifteen, and if I had paid it, next it would have been twenty.”

The brunette makes a noncommittal noise, passing to the next stall where there stand carved wooden bowls filled deep with fruit. Fausta’s hand hovers pale over a depth of purple berries, a diver on the edge of a dark lake. The current ripples and her fingers curl like a pillbug; withdrawing, she reaches instead for a _small sun_ —the Legion’s term for peaches.

Without a word, the woman behind the stall holds up two digits; Fausta looks to Iulia with wide eyes, silently asking her advice. She nods almost imperceptibly, and Fausta holds out the coins in her hand, unable to differentiate between them; they are small warped circles of silver and gold, but none have names or numbers stamped, only faces or animals. The older woman deftly picks out the change, tutting that Vulpes would not think to teach her to read Legion currency.

“Two denarii is a fair price for a peach,” she tells her seriously when the trader turns away. “Pay three only if it is ripe.”

Fausta nods, her tongue too tired to hold up her words. As they walk, she bites into the fruit, and feels the juice trickle sweet and sticky down her chin.

“Olivian wants to be a doctor when he is grown,” Iulia says as the dust kicks red around their feet. “Lucius despairs. He thought with a son he would spend his time playing sports, yet all Olivie wants to do is read. He says, ‘I teach the boy to build muscles and he wants to know how to name them!’”

In spite of these apparent jabs, it is clear to all that Lucius is very proud of his son’s ambitions. When the news arrives that the boy will play the main part in his class’s play ( _The Conquering of Sidewinder)_ , it seems the soldier might burst with pride. The two couples are seated to dinner in a transformed Gourmand, tables and benches set to hold the influx of officers to be fed; over a risotto rich with pine nuts and porcini mushrooms, Lucius explains that Olivian has been given the role of Marcus Cassius, and has pages upon pages to learn.

“His poor grandmother will have her ears talked off,” he says with a grin, “He has been studying day and night.”

“I know how she feels!” Iulia exclaims, leaning across the table. “I swear Luke has near memorised the script himself.”

Lucius clicks his tongue, and the two rib one another in rapid Latin which Fausta cannot hope to understand. When Lucius stands to fetch more water for the table, Vulpes does her the kindness of explaining the role of Marcus Cassius.

“He was one of Caesar’s best men in the sixties,” he murmurs low in her ear, “instrumental in the conquering of many tribes in the Southwest. He met his end by the Sidewinder clan; hours spent negotiating with their chieftain, only to find a knife lodged between his ribs when he exited the tent to announce their alliance.”

“How contrived,” she responds under her breath, and Vulpes smirks.

“Well,” he replies, taking a sip of water, “As they say, history is written by the victors.”

***

The first time is an unremarkable night. On and off, it rained the day through—a drizzle that settled on every surface and misted through the windows like an ocean breeze. The evening was quiet, and disinterest or fatigue—it didn’t matter which—led Fausta to retire early, leaving her husband to pour over papers with the crackling Latin of the radio for company. Curled into the sheets, she tries to read, but the book on her bedside table is _Othello_ and it is boring her near to death. Admittedly, it is hard enough to find books in legible condition out here that interest often takes a back seat. But Shakespeare is her pet hate; it does nothing but stir distant memories of fluorescent lights and pencilled essays on thin paper. _Why are we reading this?_ she remembers asking more than once, and finds herself, near ten years later, asking it again. Regardless of her opinion, the book is one her darling husband picked out; when she dared complain, he—in his preening faux intellectualism—suggested it might do her good to read something ‘of substance’ for a change, and that was the end of the conversation. So here she is, passing her night wading through scenes thick as bogs until her eyes are dragged over the same line so many times that she finally gives up.

Clicking out the lights, she settles into the dusk, listening as the wind unspools through the labyrinthian streets. The rain falls in sheets, the noise like beads scattered across a wooden floor; a dog on a street corner sends out a flurry of barks, and the sound echoes in her dozing mind until it stretches to something long and ethereal; somewhere two men speak hard and fast in a language she does not recognise, and the words merge and spin as oil marbling on water until they are meaningless, timeless.

She barely stirs when she hears him enter, assuming any touch that comes will be the sharp scratch of the needle, for it has been days now without it. But there is no sedative, no cold reprieve from consciousness. Instead there is his weight on the bed, his warmth at her back, his scent creeping over her. His fingers begin to trace light patterns on her stomach as he hums into her hair, murmuring affections that once would have made her blush; now, they chill her. Prey animals freeze when afraid, she knows that; the last refuge when there is no option to fly or fight. She’s seen rabbits do it often enough. The gun would crack through the air and they’d tense, crouched by the side of the road, eyes wide and ears twitching, hoping beyond all hope to be ignored. To be forgotten. She thinks of them as she resolves to feign sleep and count every heartbeat until he leaves her be. But his hands wander and soon they are under her nightdress—he brushes over a sensitive spot and her breath hitches; when, after a pause, he returns to run circles over it, she knows she has given herself away.

It is not long before his quiet insistence wins and she is coaxed to her back, his words warm wax dripping onto her exposed form. With her head anchored to plush pillows he dips to kiss her; it is tender and gentle, but when he slips his tongue into her mouth, it feels like an invasion. Her body is a no-man’s land, his hands mapping every peak and valley, his lips planting a foreign flag on every inch of her skin. He moves torturously slowly, a python uncoiling over her, drawing sounds from her throat that she does not make. There is a fire sweeping through her veins, a burning that stings her eyes and urges her to push him away, to speak or scream, but something holds her back, some invisible force that presses down and down until there is no air left. She has no control; she has no way to fight. All she can do is react.

As she lies there, caged in his arms, she thinks of every creature she has seen paralysed by fear, unable to move even as a predator’s jaws closed tight around it. When he nips at her neck, she cannot bring herself to flinch.

 _If threatened, a rabbit can kick hard enough to paralyse itself._ It happened to one of her neighbours, way back when: the daughter’s cottontail snapped its spine trying to squirm out of her arms. At the time, she thought it madness, that a creature would die to escape the hands of someone just trying to care for it. Couldn’t it have waited a minute for the girl to set it down? Her husband’s breath is hot as he hisses Latin into her skin, his arms beginning to tremble. _No,_ she thinks, pressing her eyes tightly shut. _It couldn’t._

He holds her, after. Such a weight wrapped around her that she thinks she might collapse in on herself, fall apart and crumble. She feels hollow. As though something deep inside her has been extinguished.

When she wakes in the night raw and shaking, his eyes are heavy half-moons. Brushing her hair from her face, he kisses her cheeks. _I am here, love,_ he murmurs, drawing her into his arms. _You are safe._ He falls asleep at her back, and she wonders which nightmare she would prefer.

It is early the next morning when he rises, leaving even before the birds have begun to warm their throats with song. Much of Fausta’s day is spent languishing in the sheets, holding herself there for as many hours as she can tolerate. Sleep won’t come, she knows that well enough, but she is afraid to see her body, to look upon her flesh: she is terrified that there will be no marks, no evidence of violation. She longs for damage, for a cracked rib or a split lip – an open wound to run her tongue along, a coppery tang to sit in her mouth. Even a bruise would suffice. Just something, anything, to prove to herself that this wasn’t her fault. That it wasn’t a choice.

Eventually she can wait no longer and drags herself to the bathroom, her eyes pinned to the ceiling until she is under the scalding downpour of the shower. When, finally, she can bring herself to look, there is nothing but an expanse of white skin, pale and smooth as cream. With a quiet desperation, she scrubs at it relentlessly, until her nerves scream and burn red, but despite her best efforts she finds she cannot wash away the lingering shadow of his touch. Folding her legs underneath her, she sits on the hard ceramic and tries, very hard, to make herself cry. She tries because it is safe here, because she is alone. And because she knows that once the tears start, they will not stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exeo – I’m leaving  
> Parva umbra Iulie – Iulia’s little shadow  
> Lupa Incultis – Inculta’s bitch
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments - I really appreciate them! The next chapter may take a little while as my workload is quite heavy for the next month, but I'll do my best :-)


	4. Fall On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The playlist for this fic is now up on my tumblr :)

Tell me,  
How does it feel with my teeth in your heart?

Euripides 

* * *

It is a gentle, crisp morning, the sun sitting low in a sky painted pink and blue. On a metal chair on their apartment’s balcony, Fausta sits, a knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Below, the trees in the Ultra-Luxe courtyard rustle softly; the wind sweeps past and she shudders, tightening the fabric around her.

“Your iron levels are probably low,” her husband says, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I’ve told you that you need to eat more.”

She doesn’t respond, and he frowns; they have had this conversation enough that they both know how it will play out, but still he tries to make his point.

“Look at this,” he says, wrapping a hand around her forearm; his fingers and thumb meet with ease. “When I touch you I think you might break.”

 _Then don’t touch me,_ she almost says, but does not. There are many things now that she does not say. Instead, she pulls her arm away, retreating it to the other side of the table, and turns her attentions to the breakfast in front of her, picking at the bun and ripping it into shards which she bundles into her mouth and swallows. It feels like eating cotton.

“What are these again?” she asks in an attempt to distract him.

“ _Nimbi_ ,” he says, eyes flicking to the sky where there is grey darkening the horizon. “Rain clouds.”

So named for the fruit baked into their middles; today some sugary paste made with berries.

Across the table, her husband sips his tea, and Fausta wonders how he does not scald his mouth. He drinks it black, straight from the pot before it has a chance to cool. In the old world, there were birds that would drink boiling water—she thinks of them as she watches him drain his third cup of tea this morning. Her own is still half-full, paled with Brahmin milk and sweetened with agave; indulgences that it only took a little convincing for her to be allowed. She has learned to time carefully her desires, and to pose them in a voice small and soft; when he is in a good mood, he will grant her most anything she dares ask for.

Breakfast had been her choice, and she feels guilty that she now struggles to eat it; tiring of the crowds in the morning canteen, she mentioned in passing that it might be nice to dine on the balcony, and this morning he surprised her with sweet tea and fresh pastries. She realises he must have risen early to fetch them and is swamped with a mixture of affection and guilt at the thought.

“What will you do today?” she asks, trying to provide him at least a little conversation, cramming the last of the _nimbus_ into her mouth and hoping he will not move another onto her plate.

“The usual. Meetings, paperwork, reports, briefings. All very dull, I can assure you.” Taking the teapot to fill his cup once more, he asks politely, “Do you have plans?”

She shrugs. “The usual. Very dull.”

Placing the pot back on the table, he quirks a smile. “If you came to my office about six, we could walk through the evening market on the way back.”

When he says it, it sounds easy and natural, but she knows that he will have been waiting the whole morning for the right moment to propose it. Still, it is an olive branch he is extending to her, and she thinks a moment before reaching to take it. If nothing else, the evening market is quieter than the day, more pleasant and relaxed. And it would be good to spend some time in the fresh air.

Fausta hones her tone carefully when she responds. “That’d be nice.”

Satisfaction is written on his face; when he extends a hand to her across the table, she slips her fingers into his palm and tries to make her smile seem genuine. More than once, Iulia has told her: _in tenebris necesse est spectare astra—_ in the dark, we must look at the stars. All she can do is try to make the best of things.

Squeezing her hand, Vulpes drains the rest of his tea and stands to leave; when he kisses her goodbye, his fingers on her neck leave a trace of warmth, and when he draws away she shivers a little at the breeze on her exposed skin.

Swirling the milky remnants of her own cup—white with delicate flowers round the edge—she recalls a time back in Freeside, six or seven years ago now; a few weeks after her mother had died. One of the neighbours across the way—Deirdra, maybe; she couldn’t recall her name now—had invited her over for a chat, _to_ _see how she was holding up._

Ghouls ran hot, so Deirdra’s apartment was chilled, with the windows pitched wide open and the chequered curtains billowing in and out. She’d been here the longest of anyone in the building and it showed—every surface and shelf was loaded high with books, photos, knick-knacks; many of which were relics a hundred years old or more. The vaultie—that was what they called her back then—had sipped politely on the stewed tea and nibbled tentatively at the overbaked biscuits, such a dark brown that she thought they might break her teeth. Eventually they ran out of empty small talk, and the conversation wound down to silence; outside, there were the spirited shouts of children playing street soccer and fighting the referee at every turn. The girl was about to excuse herself when Deirdra finally spoke again, leaning across the table and dropping her voice to a stage whisper; farcical with only the two of them in the room.

“I don’t tell many people, but I feel like you could use it,” she said, with an air of conspiracy. “I’m a seer.”

The girl blinked slowly. “Sorry?”

“A medium. If you have questions about your future, I can answer them.”

Deirdra’s watery eyes were wide and earnest, and the vaultie settled the dissent rising in her chest, deciding that there would be little harm in being polite.

“Alright,” she said, as brightly as she could manage. “How does it work?”

“Finish your tea and think about what you want to know,” Deirdra rasped, her voice high and wavering. “The leaves will show you the answer.”

Raising her eyebrows a little, the girl drained the cup to the older woman’s instruction, the dregs of the tea powdery on her tongue.

“My mother read the leaves and her mother before her; this goes back to well before the War.” The ghoul was solemn as she pored over the chipped china, swirled three times and with the handle pointed due south. She tilted the cup slightly to get a better view, and her red hands trembled like aspen.

“So, is there a book or something?” the girl asked in an attempt to break the quiet which was beginning to stretch.

“No, it’s intuitive; delicate. The signs can mean different things. Depends where they’re placed, what’s next to them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Consider the lily here,” the woman said, pointing a ragged nail to a bundle of leaves at the bottom of the cup, “If it was at the side, it would be a sign of happiness and health. This shows anger and strife.”

“Wonderful,” she replied drily, “Is there anything good in there?”

“It’s next to a pear, and a razor. You’ll marry into money, but at a cost to yourself.”

The vaultie frowned but said nothing.

“I see gold in your future,” Deirdra continued cryptically. “A dark crow will take it from you, and you will be glad.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Sitting back in her chair, Deirdra raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “I can’t speak to the intentions of the leaves. Their message is only for you.”

It took significant effort for the girl not to roll her eyes at the tosh Deirdra was spouting, clearly picked out straight from a book. Still, it was a harmless indulgence, and when she left with burnt biscuits bundled up in cloth and a casserole to see her through the weekend, her thanks were sincere. For all her eccentricities, Deirdra was a good woman: the food could last her four days if she split it right, and it would save her scrabbling between the couch cushions trying to find enough change to buy groceries. The reading she dismissed almost immediately from her mind; she’d had enough strife for a lifetime, and the last thing she needed was to think about more. There were enough things to be dealt with in the present. Closing the apartment door behind her and setting the food on the counter, she sighed, and decided she’d look through the papers tomorrow for work.

***

It’s just past six when Fausta makes it to the building her husband’s office is in, face flushed and glasses slipping down her nose. Three days ago, they opened a small library on Maple Avenue, and she decided today would be as good as any to take advantage and pick out something to enhance the dire selection present in their apartment. She had set off at four-thirty, planning a browse and then a leisurely stroll, but the shelves had been fuller than expected, with over half the works present available in English—at ten to six she caught sight of a clock, and rushed from the room in a panic, her arms heavy with hardbacks. She is halfway down the corridor when one slips from her grasp and thumps to the floor; in crouching to pick it up, she catches sight of Vulpes locking his office.

“I thought that was you,” he says, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Closing the distance between them, he reaches to take the books from her and uses the opportunity to skim the titles; he raises his eyebrows a little at the copy of _Anne of Green Gables_ but refrains from commenting, though he looks pleased at her choice of a Latin-English dictionary and a Legion-published history book _._ “Didn’t they think to give you a bag?”

“I was in a hurry,” she admits, standing and brushing the frizzing hair from her face. “I didn’t want to be late.”

“Well,” he says, balancing the books under one arm and slipping the other around her waist, “Let’s hope they don’t get damp.”

Outside is a warm drizzle, almost a mist; the kind of rain that tricks you into thinking you will not get wet until you are sodden through. Unlike her husband, Fausta did not think to bring a coat, and soon her arms are slick with water, her blouse beginning to stick to her back.

The wares at the evening market are similar to the day’s, but there are several stalls carrying items which are less practical, more decadent: fabrics, jewels, fresh-cooked food. It is not long before Vulpes is exchanging heavy Latin with a New Mexico cartographer, and Fausta wanders a few stalls away to one selling hot drinks. Struggling through the Latin menu, she eventually lets her senses guide her and settles for _dulcis vinum_ : fresh-squeezed apple juice, mulled with whole spices and served warm in a tiny paper cup. She drops two denarii into the trader’s palm and wanders the street, sipping it carefully. The rain fogged her glasses so badly that she has long since resigned them to her pocket, and without them the yellow streetlamps blur to a gentle haze, a hundred ghosts waltzing slowly above her. She takes in a breath of crisp air, coloured with scents of grilled meat and fried pastries, and for the first time in a long time, realises she feels at peace.

It isn’t long before she reaches the end of the boulevard, the stalls here long since closed for the day. Turning to head back, she yelps as she bumps into a tall figure behind her; instinctively, she takes a step back, but when she does so the man takes another toward her.

“Inculta?” he says, low and threatening, and she freezes, unsure of how to respond. “I thought I recognised you. I seen you wandering round, perched on his arm.”

Fausta’s eyes flick around in search of help, but without her glasses there are only indistinct and meaningless shapes.

“You heartless bitch,” he spits, “Do you know what he does to people? How do you sleep at night?”

 _I don’t,_ she almost snaps back, but the words die in her throat. Biting the inside of her cheek, she takes another step away, realising too late her mistake when her back brushes against a brick wall.

With an accusatory finger in her face, the man begins to list her husband’s crimes, the tang of alcohol sour on his breath. Searchlight. Nipton. McCarran. A thousand atrocities laid at her feet, and while she would like to muster anger, she can only feel helplessness; she knows as well as they do how it looks. So she stands and focuses on a point just over his shoulder, waiting for his words to run dry. But her apathy only seems to rile him further, and she flinches when he slams a hand against the wall next to her head.

“Do you enjoy it, _lupa_? Your darling little husband, who spends his days slaughtering innocents and burning houses then comes home and fucks you all the night through?”

There are hot tears beginning to prickle at Fausta’s eyes, and she worries that soon he might hit her.

“You are _scum_ ,” the man hisses, but before he can say another word he is pulled away from her, and there is a wet thud as the man is slammed against the wall with Vulpes’ knuckles white around his throat.

“Speak like that to my wife again and I’ll cut out your tongue myself,” he says slowly, voice low, a dark fury in his eyes the likes of which she has never seen.

Whatever happens next Fausta does not see, for she turns tail and walks away from the scene as quickly as she can, her vision blurring with the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. She is halfway down the boulevard when Vulpes falls into line beside her; he seems to know better than to try to touch her or speak, and instead simply slows his pace to match hers.

The rain falls more and more heavily as they walk back to the Ultra-Luxe, and by the time they reach the apartment Fausta is drenched and hysterical, sobs racking her frame so severely that they nearly bend her in two. Still carrying her books, Vulpes sets them on the sofa before leading her to the en-suite and turning on the shower.

“Come on,” he says gently, “You’ll catch cold like this.”

She is shivering so badly that her fingers can only fumble over the buttons on her blouse, and when he reaches a hand out to her and pauses, she nods, allowing him to peel the fabric away from her damp skin. A moment later she steps under the hot torrent of water and feels it soothing over the gooseflesh on her arms and legs, stinging as it does so. She expects that Vulpes will strip and join her, but instead he takes a towel and slips from the room; turning, she begins to wash the rain from her hair.

The air of the living room is cool after the humidity of the bathroom, but that is where she finds her husband, stood at the counter with a just-boiled kettle in hand. She perches on the end of the sofa, feeling as if every part of her being is on-edge; Vulpes moves to hand her a mug of hot sugary tea, but upon seeing how badly her hands are shaking, turns back to pour half down the sink, topping it up with cold water. Some of it still ends up in her lap, but she is too distracted to notice, closing her eyes and drinking in the sweet warmth and trying to settle the thrumming of her heart.

Eventually he shifts a little closer to her, holding out an arm for her to settle into; exhausted, she accepts the invitation and curls into his side, wishing desperately to pretend—just for a little while—that her life is what she had once hoped it to be. That he is a normal man, who goes to his office every day and comes home and holds her tight and kisses her goodnight and has hands white and bloodless.

“People will tell you many things about me, _cara_ ,” he says softly. “I am not a well-liked man in these parts.”

She does not dare ask if they are true; though she knows, really, that they are. There is no smoke without fire, no accusations without ground, and she heard the radio bulletins, read the newspaper reports herself. But when she looks at him, blue eyes warmed with concern, she sees the face of a man she once trusted, and the animosity melts away until all that is left is a hollow melancholy. For a long time, neither of them speak; he runs a hand absent-mindedly through her hair and the soft twang of a guitar rings fresh from the radio.

_So blow you ol’ blue northern, blow my love to me—_

Eventually, she is so caught up in her own head that she cannot stand it any longer. Swallowing, she asks, “Have you ever been to Wyoming?”

“Once,” he replies after a moment, “A few years ago.”

“What was it like?”

“Wilder than here, if you can believe it. Greener. Trees, lakes, mountains. Nature rules there, not men.” His voice is different than it normally is, less reserved, less structured. Less careful.

She thinks, _you do not know what it is to be ruled by men._

“I never made it up there, huh?” she says with a small, sad smile; one that he does not return. Instead, his hand slips to curl around her waist.

“No. I suppose you didn’t.”

Vaguely, she wonders if she will ever see it.

“I kept all your letters,” she says quietly, and while her voice cracks there are no tears left within her to fall. “They were in a box under my bed.”

Tied with a ribbon in a neat little pile, tucked away where prying hands and eyes wouldn’t find them.

He rests his head atop hers, and when he speaks it is into her hair. “I meant every word.”

There are yellow-purple bruises blushing over his knuckles, and she lifts his hand to brush it against her lips. Pressed to his chest, she can hear his heart thumping steadily—warm and consistent.

“I could have loved you,” she says softly, barely more than a breath, and he tilts her chin up until their eyes meet.

“So love me now,” he responds, tangling a hand in her hair and pressing his lips to hers with a tender desperation that makes her heart ache.

***

“ _I lie awake at night dreaming of your caress_ —” Arcade snorted, “Jesus, I didn’t realise you were dating Lord Byron.”

Whipping around from her place by the window, the courier snatched the letter from the doctor’s hand. “Those are _private_ ,” she snapped, sliding the paper back into its envelope and taking care not to damage the pressed flowers taped inside.

Leaning back in his chair, Arcade raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little old to be passing love notes?” he remarked. “Surely you have better things to spend your time on than a whirlwind romance.”

“God forbid I have any fun in my life,” the woman said drily, flopping onto the sofa across from him. “And what would _sir_ have me doing?”

“Well, you could go and talk to Crocker for a start.”

The courier pulled a face, and Arcade frowned. “I thought you were going to push for more funding for Freeside? Investment to fix the sewage system?”

“I’ve tried! They’re not interested. The only reason Crocker wanted to see me is because he thought I’d make a good poster girl.”

She leant over to pour herself some more coffee and topped up the doctor’s mug when he held it out to her.

“Well, what about the chip? Didn’t House want you to go—”

“ _Across the Colorado?”_ she said with an air of drama. “Him and that creep on the Strip. I told them both to pound sand.”

Arcade’s expression was pinched. “If they have Benny, you could get to the chip before they figure out what it does.”

“I’m sure it’d be well worth the journey,” she replied sarcastically, “Why don’t you start sizing me up for a collar right now?”

“If the Legion get in you’ll be wearing one regardless,” he quipped back, softening a little when he saw her hurt expression. “You have a real chance to make a difference here. You just have to keep fighting until they listen.”

The courier fingered the edges of the letter before placing it back on the table. “I’m so tired of it all. The NCR won’t take me seriously because I’m from Freeside. Freesiders hate me because I’m from a vault. House barely deigns to speak to me. I just wish all this hadn’t been put on me.”

“Some are born to greatness; others have it thrust upon them.”

“Functionally useless, thank you.”

Arcade rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to be encouraging here. Forgive me for not joining your pity party.”

“I’ll go to the embassy again tomorrow, okay?” Standing, she moved to root through the kitchen cabinets, swearing as one of the cupboard doors drooped lopsided on its remaining hinge. After a minute she found what she was looking for, glasses clinking as she negotiated the bottle’s release. “Now can we please talk about something _other_ than politics?”

“Of course. What’s the latest with Beet Boy?”

The glare she shot him could melt steel. “I will kick you out of my apartment, Arcade.”

His only response was to smile serenely and offer her his mug to be filled with gin.

_[While the days are warm and sunny, the nights here are so cold. The wind finds every gap in the rickety window frames and settles over me so severely that I wake with my legs stiff as branches. Perhaps you can send me some wool socks with your next letter - or better, bring yourself with it._

_I lie awake at night dreaming of your caress - how I long to run my fingers through your hair and over your soft skin. Do you blush as you read this, darling? I wish I could see those gentle dogwoods blooming in your cheeks that I might kiss them red.]_


	5. Emotional Motion Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, I'd just like to thank everyone who has read, kudos'd, commented, and otherwise engaged with this story so far. The response to it has been frankly overwhelming, and more than I ever dared hope for.

These Hands, If Not Gods

Haven’t they moved like rivers—  
like Glory, like light—  
over the seven days of your body?

And wasn’t that good?

Natalie Diaz

* * *

_Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. A hundred._

It’s a pact Fausta has had with herself since she was a child, to count to a hundred and swallow the pill. Rip off the band-aid. Make the jump. Ask the question that has been swimming in her mind for hours now.

Blood blooms in her mouth, and she realises too late that she has chewed her bottom lip to shreds. Before she can begin counting again, she rolls to her side, studying her husband’s profile, lit yellow by the dim glow of the bedside lamp. As he turns the page, his glasses begin to slip down his nose; absently, he reaches to adjust them, eyes still skimming over a tight-printed paragraph. The book is leather-bound and ancient, penned by some long-dead American author; while the title is vaguely familiar to her, she cannot place it in her memory.

When finally she speaks, her voice comes out in a half-croak, and she almost startles herself by breaking the silence in the room. “Iulia has a house, in Flagstaff.”

“Most people do,” Vulpes replies, glancing over at her with a quizzical expression.

“I just—didn’t expect it,” she says in a small voice, feeling foolish. She has never known anyone to own property; not here, not anywhere really. Freeside was a life of rent and landlords, arrears and evictions; instability cut to its core.

“I have one, too. It’s on a hill. There’s a nice view.”

“Will we live there? After—” she trails off, unsure of how to continue. After what? With the dam secured and the city taken, it does not seem there is much left to be done. Who will leave and who will stay—it is the question on the tongues of many of the wives she has overheard, pestering their husbands to say when they will finally leave the dusty Mojave behind to return to Arizona.

“Perhaps.” Closing his book, he chews over his next words. “I find Flagstaff quite dull. But it’s very safe, very established. It would be a good place to raise our children.”

She can feel the colour drain from her face, and he must notice her fall quiet, because his hand finds hers and squeezes it tight.

“Don’t look so frightened, darling,” he says, almost kindly. “We have all the time in the world.”

Her stomach twists, and she wishes desperately that she had not spoken at all. Later that night, as she lies awake, eyes spinning in the dark, she wonders which part of it was worse: her own words, repeated back to her, or the reminder that she will be here, or there, with him, for the rest of her life.

***

Her husband is an unpredictable man. There are nights when he is kind, sweet, considerate, when he plies her with honeyed words and soft touches. But there are others when he returns late to the apartment, dark as a storm, and on those nights every one of her words is a stone dropped down a well, waiting on-edge to hear it hit the bottom.

Tonight she has lost herself in a book, curled on the sofa reading the day away. The scenes are so vivid that she can almost feel them herself: a soft breeze on her skin, crisp autumn air filling her lungs, the faint hint of spices and apples on the wind. Closing her eyes, she thinks what it might have been like to grow up outside the metallic confines of the vault, to run barefoot through the tall grass, seed-heads scratching against her knees; to seek refuge from the hot sun by plunging headfirst into a bright lake; to gather sticks and build a bonfire to stave off the autumn chill, throwing one for the dog yapping around her heels. All of these things are foreign to her, but still close enough that she feels she could reach out and touch them.

At the sound of the apartment door opening, she freezes, heart racing as she realises she has lost track of time. Scrabbling around for her glasses, she manages to steal a glance at the clock on the wall—he is home half an hour early. But to her relief, he seems to be in a good mood; his tone is light, and the brown paper bag in his hands announces that he has stopped by the bakery on his way back. From it he draws a small pastry, sliced apple curved gently into the shape of a flower.

“A rose for my rose,” he says, placing it in her lap with a flourish and kissing the top of her head.

Dropping a pile of papers on the desk, he flops beside her on the sofa, draping his arm behind her head.

“I have to see a colleague this evening,” he says easily, conversationally, “I thought you might come along.”

Tearing off a petal to chew, she eyes him with suspicion. “To the meeting?”

“His wife will be there. You two can chat about—” he makes a vague hand gesture, “—women things.”

Fausta frowns, but says nothing. The pastry has been drizzled with caramel and topped with chopped nuts; it leaves her fingers sticky where it has touched them. She wonders what subjects mark a conversation as a woman’s, and how they differ from the topics her husband would think more important.

The colleague, Gabban, has been in Vegas now for the best part of a year, and he seems to have no plans to move away any time soon. His apartment is two levels higher than their own, and as they pass door after door, Fausta is struck by how alike the floors in the casino are: every one has the same beige carpet and pale walls, dark doors with polished brass knobs. But even in a place designed to seem identical, she picks out small differences—things she learned young to use to find her way through the vault’s labyrinthian corridors—and by the time they reach Gabban’s apartment, Fausta thinks that she could quite confidently identify this floor from her own. 

Vulpes announces their presence with three sharp knocks, and Fausta can only assume it is Gabban’s wife who answers the door: she is older than Iulia, and shorter, with dark hair loose around her shoulders and thin lines tracing her eyes and lips.

“I must steal away your husband, domina,” Vulpes says with a wolfish grin.

“I am well used to it by now,” the woman says warily, her eyes turning to Fausta. “And who is this?”

“My wife.”

She whistles low and long, “You’ve lost a lot of people their money, _anaticula_. I had twenty denarii on him not marrying before forty.”

Vulpes’ smile begins to strain at the edges, and the light-haired man next to Livia touches her arm, passing her a knowing look.

“I’m sure you can entertain our guest, love.”

“Of course,” she replies, clicking her tongue and gesturing Fausta inside. “My name is Livia,” she adds with a glance over her shoulder, “For those who would not think to introduce us.”

Livia’s apartment feels lived-in: it is clean but a little untidy, with mugs left on the coffee table and shoes set in a row by the door. There doesn’t seem to be a bare surface in the whole room: every wall is covered in paintings of birds, flowers, lighthouses on turbulent seas; every chair sports at least one knitted blanket, all in varying bright colours and intricate patterns.

With Vulpes gone, Livia’s demeanour melts into something warm and welcoming; while her accent is unfamiliar, she speaks in the lilting way of someone translating their words before they reach the tongue.

“Seat yourself, darling; have you eaten?” She does not wait for a response, breezing around the kitchenette and taking clean mugs from the cupboard. “I’m glad Inculta finally brings someone other than himself to my door. Though I imagine you are more tired of seeing him than even I am.”

Fausta starts a little, unused to hearing a woman speak so starkly about her husband. If Livia notices her discomfort, she does not acknowledge it, continuing to draw out plates and jars; the kettle clatters to the stovetop, and there is the scraping of a match being struck.

“Gabban has worked with him for over a decade now. It seems every other week he turns up, at any hour he pleases.”

Fausta blinks, hesitant to reply. “Vulpes has an office. Don’t they speak there?”

“The question I have asked for years!” Livia exclaims, throwing her hands to the air. “I say, Gabban, I do not want that man in my home. He says, he is my superior, I cannot turn him away. I say, he brings a dark cloud, I do not trust him. He says I make his life difficult.” She sighs. “I had always hoped he would grow a backbone, but he is too old for it now.”

Satisfied that things are set out as they should be, Livia sits in an armchair across from Fausta. “But I look upon myself. Are you alright?”

Fausta shrugs. “I’m alive.”

The older woman’s eyes skirt her neck and wrists, and it is a moment before she realises that she is looking for bruises. She shifts in discomfort, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap.

“How long has it been?”

“More than a month,” she responds quietly. The weeks have long since stretched to a blur, and the idea of keeping count of them makes her skin crawl.

“Time makes it easier.”

Making a small noise, Fausta leans forward to examine the embroidery hoop set on the table, next to a book of paintings open at the original design. It is a cardinal, wings spread like bloody handprints, beaded eyes seeming to wink at her as the light hits them.

“How long have you been here?” she asks with a sudden boldness; immediately, she glances up in alarm, wishing to cram the words back into her mouth, but Livia seems unfazed.

“With the Legion? Twenty-five years. As long as your husband.”

“Did you know him? Before?”

While she knows it is unlikely, desperation has begun to crawl up her throat, tempted by the first glimpse of hope she has seen in weeks. The kettle begins to scream for attention, and Fausta is unsure whether Livia has heard her.

“Not personally. His people were _tłʼiish,_ from the very bottom of Utah. We didn’t trade with them. They were—” Livia pauses a moment, searching for the right word, “Faithless.”

She stands to take the pot off the stove, and Fausta finds herself suddenly unable to contain the words which begin to spill from her mouth as water from a burst dam.

“No one will tell me anything,” she confesses. “I ask and ask and all anyone will say is that he’s _well respected._ He has done so many horrible things, I know that, I heard about them even before, before—" her voice cracks, and she drops her head to her hands, “I know that’s him, that beast, that _monster_ , but I can’t see it when I look at him. I don’t know who he is. It terrifies me.”

Livia is silent as she pushes the book to the edge of the table, replacing it with a bright blue teapot and a plate of small cakes, round and yellow. The mug Fausta is given is white and chipped, proudly stating WELCOME TO DAZZLING NEW VEGAS in faded block letters.

“Men like that,” Livia says carefully, “Learn young to unstitch their shadows. One half might be beside you, and the other miles away. You’ll never know him whole.”

“So what do I do?” Fausta asks, helpless. “How do I reconcile it?”

The other woman makes a vague noise, pausing to pour tea into their mugs. It is pale and fragrant; Fausta sips it obediently when it is handed to her, and tries not to wince as the hot liquid passes her lips. It tastes of perfume.

“One half does not erase the other,” Livia says, and sighs. “You must try to build a life with what you have been given.”

They are interrupted by the miaow of a large grey cat which has padded, unnoticed, into the room. With a graceful leap to the sofa, it begins to investigate Fausta’s lap; after a moment or two, it deems it adequate, and promptly curls up in her skirt.

“That’s Toby,” Livia explains with a small smile. “You can pet him, if you like. He won’t scratch.”

Lowering a hand hesitantly, Fausta runs her fingertips through the cat’s thick fur, prompting a deep purr as he rubs a cheek against her leg. Despite herself, she cannot help the spark of joy that rises in her chest, and she moves to scratch behind his ears.

“You know,” Livia says, sipping her tea, “My mother always told me, _the mouse that charms the serpent has nothing left in the world to fear_. My whole life I never understood what she meant, until they were burning our homes and killing our men. You would do well to remember it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tolerate him, and he will protect you. You will survive this _, anaticula._ Women were made to persevere.”

An hour or so later, the return of the men is announced by Toby—ears pricking up, he dives from Fausta’s lap and darts from the room before the apartment door even cracks open. As Fausta straightens her skirts to leave, she thinks that the cat really had the best idea of them all: Vulpes’ earlier good humour seems to have evaporated, and she can only assume that their meeting did not go as he had hoped.

“Livia seems nice,” she broaches cautiously as they head back down the stairs. It is evidently the wrong thing to say, for his expression darkens upon hearing it.

“ _Canem movet cauda_ ,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. It’s a phrase that even with her limited Latin she has heard enough times to understand: _the tail wags the dog._ An accusation regularly levelled at wives perceived as ruling their husbands, Livia evidently included. When they once more reach the apartment, Vulpes stays at his desk well into the night; nestled into the cold sheets, Fausta dozes softly. She wakes with a sharp flinch when the bedroom door opens, and the sudden light throws her husband’s shadow across the bed.

***

A week later Fausta rises early, her hair tangled and eyes bleary, a glass in hand to be filled with water; her throat is dry, but she is too tired to make tea—a small drink, she thinks, and she will slip back to bed. It is the end of the week and a day even her husband respects as one of rest; she plans to spend it doing as little as possible. She might finish her book and return it to the library tomorrow morning; as she mentally skims the shelves and tries to decide which she will replace it with, she catches sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, and almost drops the glass to the floor in shock.

When she does not return after a few minutes, Vulpes comes to investigate: he finds her squinting at her reflection, running her fingertips along her throat.

“Look at me,” she despairs, eyes fixed to the mirror even as he slips behind her.

Vulpes only smirks in response, splaying his hands flat against her stomach and moving to feather kisses along her collarbone. “Beautiful.”

“It’s _awful_ ,” she breathes, craning her neck to better see the destruction he has wrought, bruises blossoming over her pale skin like violets.

Her husband chuckles lightly, stubble scratching against her throat, “I don’t recall you complaining at the time.”

“That’s not the point,” she snaps, red rising high in her cheeks.

“Stop fussing, darling,” he murmurs low in her ear, hands shifting up to cup her breasts over her pale nightgown, thumbs grazing her nipples. “Come back to bed, hm?”

As if to prove his point, he presses closer to her, his erection digging into her back; she detests herself for the shot of heat the contact sends down her spine. Squirming from his grip, she turns to face him, pushing at his chest when he leans to kiss her.

“I’m not going down like this.” She is ardent and angry, shame burning hot in her chest; she crosses her arms in an attempt to suppress the gooseflesh his touch raises in her. “I’d sooner starve.”

Vulpes sighs, his hands tracing her sides, “Must you be so difficult?”

“How am I supposed to show my face? People will _talk._ ”

“And what? They’ll see that your husband cares enough only to bruise you with his lips?”

“You don’t understand,” she mutters, pushing past him through the door.

“No, I don’t,” he returns coldly, visibly exasperated.

Fausta knows that this so easily could be over, resolved, the morning left clean and pleasant. Were she to turn back now and slip into his arms, he would forgive her in an instant. A few well-placed words like _upset_ and _hormonal_ and he would soften, holding her and kissing away her tears; they’d have tea in bed with the radio on, and the day would start slow and lazy. At lunch she would let him take her hand at the table, would listen to him talk to Lucius or Gabban about this subject or another, mentally sifting through endings and adjectives of half-comprehended Latin. And in the late afternoon, with the sun painting every surface in the apartment in its warm golden glow, they might sway to Sinatra or Crosby, her head resting on his shoulder and her eyes closed. There is a part of her that longs for it, tired of their constant stinging exchanges, but there is another part, fiery and loud, that hates her for even considering it, and it is this part which emerges victorious as she stalks to the living room, determined to ignore her husband for the rest of the morning.

When she does trail reluctantly to breakfast, it is with a gauzy scarf wrapped high and tight around her neck; to her chagrin, it is not Iulia’s familiar smile that greets her across the table, but that of a man she vaguely recognises, and she groans internally at the thought of more introductions.

“This is Alerio,” Vulpes says, extending a hand to the man across the table: brown hair and eyes, a forgettable face.

The man stands to greet Fausta, taking her hand and pecking her cheek.

“We’ve met,” Alerio says smoothly, with a smile that does not reach his eyes. “I was meant to deliver you the Mark of Caesar. I believe you told me to ‘stick it up my ass’.”

Oh. _Oh_. Fausta swallows, attempting to keep her composure—she has been truly caught off-guard. It feels foreign that he should recognise her, that she should be expected to know him: that night on the Strip now seems an eternity ago.

“Well,” she says in a measured tone, “It was a different time.”

“Indeed,” Alerio responds drily. Seating himself, he gestures to her scarf. “Are you feeling cold?”

A flush begins to rise in Fausta’s cheeks, and she takes a moment before responding. “I slept poorly. My neck is stiff.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d have much time for sleeping, with your husband here so much these days. It must be weeks now since he’s been in the field.”

And in an instant, it all becomes clear. This needling is nothing more than Alerio baring his teeth; in the dog fight between he and her husband, she has been caught in the middle. Fausta opens her mouth to reply, but Vulpes cuts in before she can; after all, this is not her battle.

“Alerio has yet to know the pleasures a wife can provide,” he says smoothly, hand trailing down her spine; she tries very hard not to visibly grimace at his implication.

The younger man laughs. “Women are a distraction Vulpes, and nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” her husband purrs, moving to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, “But a beautiful one, would you not agree?”

Fausta feels Alerio’s eyes raking over her form as she stares down at a bowl of porridge which she no longer has an appetite for, bright berries bleeding into the oats as she stirs them listlessly. Raising the spoon to her mouth and burning her tongue on the scalded milk, she begins to regret her stubbornness this morning.

It is near an hour later when they stand to leave, the men’s conversation long since having fallen to sharp gutter Latin; Fausta thinks she will finally be excused, but they seem to have no intentions of stopping—it takes all of her self-restraint not to roll her eyes when they launch into yet another debate. A soft touch to her shoulder pulls her from her thoughts; turning, she finds Livia there, hair separated into neat plaits. Before Fausta has a chance to greet her, she has taken one of the younger women’s hands in both of hers, squeezing tight.

“Remember your prayers to Juno each time,” she says carefully, her gaze intense. Fausta nods, wary of her husband less than a foot away, but he is still sparring with Alerio by the time Livia has slipped out of the room.

 _Indiligentia, indiligentiae, indiligentiam_ — mentally, she runs through the declensions, trying to decipher at least a fraction of their conversation; while her attempts are unsuccessful, it soon becomes apparent that at least some of it is about her, for it is not long before Vulpes has a hand tight around her side, his fingers digging into her hipbone as he flashes canines to his associate.

“Well, I suppose we had better leave you to your duties,” Vulpes says formally, his tone terse; Fausta near breathes a sigh of relief that today’s ordeal will finally be over.

Alerio nods, turning to Fausta and smiling widely as he exits, “It was a pleasure to meet you again, _domina._ ”

“And you,” she replies, wondering how, in just a few months, her life has fallen apart.

Aware of her husband’s set jaw, she keeps her expression neutral and her fist tight shut until she is once more in the reprieve of the apartment, safely hidden behind the locked bathroom door. When finally she unfurls her fingers, it is four white pills that she finds in the palm of her hand, as small and unassuming as shelled sunflower seeds; looking down at them, she thinks she might cry in hope or despair. It is a small mercy she has been delivered: time. A few weeks, a month or two if she is lucky: a brief loosening of the noose around her neck, a sliver enough for her to breathe a little. It is not enough—it is never enough—but she does not dare to think of the price she would pay were they discovered. Instead, she slips them under the mattress and prays to any god that will listen to spare her this. It is far too much weight for any one woman to bear.

***

The first time he leaves her, it is for three days. It is a work trip, of course, _necessary business._ He seems more displeased about it than she; indeed, initially, she is delighted at the prospect of a little freedom. In the week leading to it she plans indulgences: sleeping to whatever hour she pleases, wondering if she could get her hands on a cigarette or two. She thinks she will feel once more like a teenager, sneaking around in the dark, sharing forbidden mouthfuls of cheap whisky with the heat spreading through her chest and setting her head abuzz. And for the first few hours, it is joyous.

But when she tries to sleep, she finds that fear seizes tight around her heart; with the shadows crawling over the walls and the silence pressing down on her chest, she cannot breathe in the bedroom alone. Instead she turns on every light in the living room, wrapping herself in a blanket on the sofa and setting the radio on the coffee table. In the small hours of the morning, there is little choice of content—there are few enough awake to listen. The handful of stations which are still on-air cater to those left to work through the night: medical staff, soldiers on watch. Even the host is weary and half-asleep, leaving the records to fizz to static before finally switching them over, and reading through the papers with obvious disinterest. Marty Robbins, Hank Williams; a cholera outbreak in Littlefield, a lost brahmin in Primm. Eventually she drops off, waking a few hours later shaking and disoriented, reaching unthinking for the warmth beside her which is not there. Setting the kettle on to boil and shivering through the morning, she thinks how cruel it is that she should be deprived of even this small pleasure.

When she passes downstairs to collect her washing, the other women pause in their conversations: they have drawn a chalk circle of distrust around her, and none of them will dare smudge it. The questions passed to her are hesitant, hushed, whispered, and centre on her husband. Cautiously, they ask if he is cruel, perverted; whether he hits her or makes her do unspeakable things in the dark. Quietly, they ask if the rumours of him are true. And how she longs to tell them, to lay down the burdens which she thinks might soon break her back, to swap stories and gossip and advice. But just as they do not trust her, she cannot lay her faith in them, not completely: word travels impossibly quickly here, and no temporary relief is worth the risk of it getting back to her husband. So she smiles softly and inclines her head, and tells them, _I’m fine. He treats me well._

After all, there is always someone whose situation is worse. This week it is Augustina, the wife of Decanus Marc, who was brought more than a postcard from her husband’s recent trip south. She has spent days, red-faced, boiling their bedsheets, dipping her hands into the greying water and knowing full-well that her predicament is the current choice of conversation.

“Vegas muck, probably,” one of them says with disdain, speculating about the object of Marc’s desires—they all express suspicion towards those from the glittering diamond of the West.

Another asks Fausta where she is from, and for once her vague accent plays into her favour. With a shrug, she adopts a phrase favoured amongst those assimilated to the Legion.

“Somewhere that doesn’t matter anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anaticula – little duck  
> Tłʼiish – snake (Navajo)


	6. Bite the Hand

But he that dares not grasp the thorn  
Should never crave the rose.

Anne Brontë

* * *

When Vulpes leaves, sometimes for days at a time, he leaves his wife a little money. It is not any significant amount; enough to cover any small necessities that arise in his absence: food, medicine, fabric. Fausta knows well to be prudent, for her husband expects change upon his return, but there are some luxuries which it affords her: a cup of coffee, a pat of soft cheese—things which normally are held out of her reach. Each time she wanders the stalls alone she stares longingly at the sharp silver blades of the weapon traders, polished high enough to catch even a blind eye when the sunlight hits them. None would dare sell any to a woman, much less one without her husband present, but it is a fantasy she allows herself to indulge in on occasion—her dry palm closed over the handle as she plunges it deep into his chest.

The worst are the eastern markets—the ones which arrive twice a month heaving with traders from Legion territories, who bark Latin at her so quickly that they make her head spin. It is an ordeal enough when she is alone and stumbling through, with men circling like vultures and waiting for the moment her tongue slips into the wrong verb, the wrong case. The wrong life. Fausta had spent years running numbers, sifting good deals from bad; she learned quickly to talk her way around traders, to bat her eyes and flick her hair at men who would take in her sun-starved skin and steepled English and say to themselves, _Here is a girl who does not know the price of a mutfruit._ And it had been easy, natural; a confidence that was soaked into her bones and that seeped through to her skin; a fire that spit up in her gut and bared her teeth when they said, _Well sweetheart I have to tell ya, this is a pretty sweet deal you’re throwin’ away here._

In the here and now, in the middle of a bustling crowd, she finds herself stumbling over her speech: trying desperately to translate and convert before they think her slow, to remember exactly how many denarii there are to an aureus and, ultimately, how much all these things are supposed to cost. Prices are no longer a question of how much she is willing to pay, but how much she wants something; how far she can bear to put up with Vulpes’ scolding when she once more overpays for a lime. Each time he does it is light and inconsequential, a tut and a tap on the shoulder as he reprimands her gently for burning through her petty allowance, but each time it feels as though he has been the one to plunge a blade into her heart and twisted tight. She is weaker in Latin, more passive; she feels useless, pathetic; unsuited even to the menial task of buying bread or fruit, and she resents him endlessly for taking even that small autonomy away from her. Constantly, she feels alone and alienated, constantly confused by customs unspoken and cryptic: why Iulia and Livia are given different prices to her—sometimes higher, sometimes lower—how on occasion it is acceptable and expected to laugh at the trader’s weak jokes, to put a hand on his arm and smile sweetly as he winks and says he’ll make an exception _just for you_ —but it is a dangerous game: a tightrope walk where there is no way of knowing if you are ten inches or ten feet from the ground. When they pass her a smile Fausta does not dare reciprocate, withdrawing quickly into herself when they stand too close or adopt a certain tone. There are eyes everywhere, men and women both, and it is impossible to know which are on her. The risk is too much.

When she navigates these conversations alone, lost at sea with no land in sight, she thinks it the worst thing in the world. But it is somehow worse when he is there too, with her perched on his arm like a trophy, silent and cooperative. Market days are a reprieve from the monotony of the apartment, but they are bright and overwhelming, and she is on-edge and anxious the whole time they are there. He will talk for her endlessly— _well, my wife loves peaches you see—_ the words buzzing like insects around her, and he will turn to her and ask something so normal, so innocuous, that it will make her head spin. _What do you think darling, the green dress or the blue?_ And it is so unfamiliar for her, to be presented with these choices, that she does not know how to react. The first time, she had stood still, staring at him as if he were about to bite; he’d laughed and pulled her loose to his side, kissed her head and said, _Relax, darling. Don’t worry over the cost._ He’d cracked a joke and the trader had laughed, they both had, while she stood spinning and trying not to shake. The worst of it was she could not even bring herself to be angry; she was left, lost and empty, trying to determine what exactly was expected of her.

It feels, sometimes, as though he wants her to be happy. But these expeditions leave her exhausted: while she will say it is the fresh air and the excitement and the heat of so many bodies gathered in one place, really, it is the stress. The endless thrumming of her heart, her eyes piqued and searching for any tiny twitch, any imperceptible sign that she has done wrong (and these signs are always imperceptible). Whenever they return, she wants only to collapse into a heap and sleep forever.

It is a market day when Vulpes’ latest trip ends: traders from Colorado and Arizona having come to hawk their wares. It was a good day, sunny but cold, summer eking out its last breath. There was a glutton of fruit reduced to a pittance, produce from the end of the harvest which would soon be left black and inedible. Despite his frosty exterior her husband has a sweet tooth—honey poured over his foods as well as his words—and she earlier cleared out a trader’s stock of raspberries in the hopes of charming him into a pleasant evening.

Vulpes is tired when he enters the apartment, but pleased; he kisses her when he enters and hums in the shower—always a good sign. Waiting for his exit, Fausta presses shaking hands to her nightgown, smoothing out the creases. The chemise is one he bought her, in a deep sinful red; the one he said makes her look—what was the word? _Irresistible._

The implications of his good humour are another beast entirely, and one which she tries very hard not to ruminate on. Her husband is an expert in card towers, intricate and high, his victims realising their mistake only when the house begins to collapse around them. And in this life, Fausta has realised, there comes a time when one must choose whether to be the one in the tower, or to be the one building it.

When he enters the bedroom, a towel around his waist, he sits heavy on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through his damp hair. Without a word, Fausta presses herself against his back, water droplets still warm on his skin; wrapping her arms around him, she begins to slide her hands down his toned stomach.

“Hello,” he says in amusement, taking one of her hands in his own and kissing it. “Someone’s feeling affectionate.”

“I missed you,” she pouts, resting her head on his shoulder, “It was boring without you here.”

“Well,” he says, a serpentine grin spreading across his face, “I think I know how to liven things up.”

He turns, placing a hand behind her as he moves to trap her in a kiss, but after a second she pulls away.

“I got you a present,” she whispers, lidding her eyes in a way she hopes is seductive.

“And you’ve wrapped it so nicely,” he purrs, running a hand over the silk of her nightgown appreciatively. Fausta laughs lightly, the noise like tinkling glass.

“No, I got it at the market. They make it in Colorado.”

Leaning back, she produces a bottle of red wine, the crisp label marking it as 2279. Without a word, Vulpes takes it from her, inspecting it.

“I hope that’s alright,” she says earnestly, her heart beginning to pound. She scans his face for any sign of disapproval, worried that he might scold her for being presumptuous, for spending his money on frivolities without his permission. And perhaps it’s the lingerie, or her tone, or his already good mood, but he smiles, and says,

“You have a good eye.”

“The trader was from Dove Creek. He gave me a good deal since I cleared him out of berries.”

In truth, he’d known her husband and had produced the bottle from under the stall, presenting it to her with a wink. _Dom Inculta will enjoy this one, I know._

“Well, I do like the sound of that.”

This time when he leans to kiss her she does not pull away, parting her lips as he moves to deepen it, gently probing her tongue with his own. His hand settles on her waist, pulling her close to him, and she settles into his lap, shifting coquettishly. He hums into her mouth as he threads his fingers through her hair, hers brushing along his stubbled jawline, and he makes a disappointed noise when she finally pulls away. Hopping out of his reach, she slips to the other side of the room, digging through her bedside table and feeling his eyes trail over her. Within a moment she is back, hands tucked behind her back.

“What’s this?” Vulpes asks playfully, hands resting on her waist as she produces a strip of black fabric.

“I thought we could play a game,” she says in a sultry tone, smoothing the ribbon over his eyes and tying it at the back of his head. He tenses at first, considers, but soon relaxes as she hovers over him, pressing soft kisses and soft fruits to his lips. Feeling daring, she bites into a raspberry and touches her mouth to his; his tongue is gentle as it takes the juice from her lips, tasting sharp sweetness and her warm skin. When she moves to straddle him, his hands move to draw light circles on her thighs; she can feel him growing hard beneath her and rolls her hips experimentally, drawing a low groan from the back of his throat. Pausing, she reaches for his glass and takes a mouthful of the wine; leaning to kiss him, she lets the warm red liquid pass from her lips to his. He hums in approval, fisting a hand in her hair and chasing every drop with a ferocious hunger, only breaking the kiss when they are both rendered breathless.

“How is it?” she murmurs, trailing her lips along his jawline.

“Dry,” he responds bluntly, and her face falls.

“Sorry.”

“No matter,” he replies with a devious smile, cradling her face and running his thumb over her cheek. “You are all the sweetness I need.”

Vulpes’ hands begin to roam her body; one slides to cup her ass, the other slipping beneath her chemise and wandering to her breast, kneading the soft skin he finds there. His hand brushes against a rosy nipple and her breath hitches, her hips jerking forward unconsciously. Smirking, he continues in his ministrations, his fingers trailing feather-light down her navel until they reach the dark curls covering her sex. Softly, he brushes against the inside of her thighs and feels her tense at the touch; moving his head so the blindfold slips from his eyes, he can see that hers are shut, her chest rising and falling with a beautiful rapidity. Running his hands over the white sea of her back he pulls her close to him, kissing her deeply and catching her bottom lip between his teeth—just enough to sting. She gasps and draws away, but he follows, pressing his mouth to hers once more and running his tongue lightly over the wound in apology, and soon she is melted back against him, her skin burning hot under his touch. Without warning, Vulpes wraps his arms around her, rolling them over in one fluid movement—swallowing her indignant protests, he slides his tongue into her mouth, one hand dropping to her nipple and rolling the bud between his fingers until she is once more writhing against him. 

Her need is wordless but palpable; covering his hand with her own, she urges him to go further, guiding him to her core. He obeys, fingers slipping between her labia and drawing them apart like petals, moving to brush over and lightly circle her clitoris. Her breath shortens and her lips form something that might be his name; when he slips two fingers inside her, she is hot and tight and makes such a delicious moan at the intrusion that he becomes suddenly aware of just how pressing his own need is becoming. Tracing his tongue along the shell of her ear, he begins to suck viciously at the lobe.

Soon she grows frustrated at his teasing and presses a hand to his cheek, imploring him to raise his head from where he is nipping at the soft skin of her throat; those pale eyes meet hers with an intensity that sets her heart skipping, and it takes her a moment to regain her words.

“Please,” she whispers and he laughs breathlessly, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw and shifting to accommodate. When he enters her, her breath is fluttered, a moth wing passing over his neck, and when he begins to move it is only a few moments before her lips capture his once more, her gestures becoming feverish. Before long, she is tangling her hands in his hair and moaning openly into his mouth as the heat in her begins to build to a peak; finally, she tenses against him with a gasp, digging her nails sharp into his shoulders before falling back, sated; he follows her soon after, burying his face in the crook of her neck and sighing against her skin.

When he flops, boneless, to his back, she tucks herself in at his side, resting her head on his chest; her hair speckles over his face and he brushes it away, leaving his hand to linger at the nape of her neck.

“That was a pleasant surprise,” he remarks, regretting it as he feels her stiffen.

Fausta takes a moment to respond, drawing a breath and letting her words fall as she exhales. “I just want things to be normal.”

“They will be,” he says soothingly, drawing soft shapes over her back. “I promise you.”

Shifting, he drains the last of his wine, and moves to top up both their glasses. When he kisses her again it is slow and languid, warmth spreading through his form and the wine’s rich redness leaving his lips bloody.

***

It’s less than an hour before the sedatives begin to work. She is curled up against him, back to his chest as she waits in the darkness, listening to his breathing and her own heartbeat and fighting every instinct to relax and shut her eyes, even just for a few minutes. Not here. Not tonight.

When she is sure he won’t wake, she slips out from under the covers, pinning her hair back to the bun which he earlier unravelled; one clip is kept aside, and she holds it tight in her palm as she creeps to the main room, the door closing soft behind her. The sedatives were easily gained, the lock to Vulpes’ bedside table barely more than decorative—it’s funny, she thinks, how these things were supposed to be long since banned. Maybe they are relaxing the rules now, with the Dam secured and Vegas under their control: a little sweetness to ease the transition for the local populace. Or maybe it is an indulgence exclusive to the upper-rings; a greased palm for her husband’s efforts. With any luck, she will never have to find out.

The chest containing his armour is easily opened—she has spent days practising with the lock—and with a knife tucked into her boot and a scarf wrapped tight around her face, she slips from the apartment, skittering down the back staircase and into the velvet night before anyone can stop her long enough to recognise her.

And it’s easier than she thinks it will be. She just walks and walks and nods at anyone who passes—few and far between in these small hours. The gates to the city will be watched, she knows that well enough, with no space left for even a shadow to slip through. But there is a spot behind the Ultra-Luxe which is unpatrolled and tucked neatly out of sight, and it is there she hurries to, hoping she will not run in to one of her husband’s colleagues on the way.

The fence is ancient and rusted, cobbled together with scraps of metal so twisted they resemble skeletal hands raised to the sky; there is a rusted yellow dustbin pressed against it, and if Fausta stretches to her toes she can just reach the top of it. It takes several attempts, but finally she gets a good enough grip to pull herself up and over: the steel edge carves deep gouges into her palms, and the unforgiving ground rips into her knees as she falls, but she can’t bring herself to care. Her hummingbird heart sets her hands shaking, and with trembling fingers she manages to shed her heavy outer layers—the leather pteruges and clunky boots which are sizes too big—until all that is left is the scarf tied about her waist and the red tunic loose around her form. It’s one she was supposed to wash and it smells of him, _she_ smells of him, and she tries very hard to ignore the twist in her gut when she thinks about it.

A shuffling sound nearby has her nearly jump from her skin, a spark of adrenaline coursing through her, but when she snaps round with her heart raised to her mouth, her eyes meet nothing more than those of a crow, black and bright. As Fausta tries to steady her breathing it scratches half-heartedly at the ground, pausing to preen its wings. And then without warning it leaves, taking to the sky in an indigo blur. Fausta’s throat tightens at the sight of the creature and its smooth, easy freedom, but she pushes the feeling down, instead looking to the endless blocks of grey which compose Freeside. Slipping through the backstreets and alleyways with a practiced precision, each step is carefully placed to avoid cutting her bare feet to shreds—finally, finally they are met with the hard dust of the open Mojave, and Fausta has to bite her fist to keep from breaking into sobs. That first breath of air is incredible. It is fresh and crisp and sweet in a way she has never known; she wants nothing more than to close her eyes and fill her lungs and savour this moment forever. But she knows, more than anything, that she must keep moving. So she scans the sky, picking a star at random and pinning her hopes to it, determined to get as far as she can from this city of sin.

With the lights of Vegas behind her it is pitch dark and cold, so cold, the tips of her fingers having long since fallen numb. The wind stirs itself only to a light breeze, but it is enough to kick up the dust in the air, pushing it into every cut on her arms and legs, sandpaper rubbing into her with every step. Her feet are grazed and her back aches, but it is hours before she dares stop—while her body screams at her to keep going, to push on and on until she reaches some form of help, of civilisation, the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon, and she knows it will not be long until she will be easily spotted once more.

When she finds the abandoned gecko nest—a ditch dug out in the sandy dirt, shaded by a bush—she rolls into it without a second thought. It is small and tight, but just enough to fit her if she lies very still and very flat. With her mind racing and adrenaline coursing through her, she does not think that she will ever sleep again. But the moment she settles herself, the exhaustion hits all at once, and she tumbles to a pit of dark and restless dreams.

It is high noon when Fausta wakes, the sun blazing bright and dangerous across the sky. There is warmth on her face, humid and stifling, and she passes a hand over it before finally cracking open her eyes. And the moment she does, every muscle in her body tenses, for they are met with the sharp teeth of a snarling hound.


	7. If Love is a Red Dress, Hang Me in Rags

I aimed my Pebble – but Myself  
Was all the one that fell –  
Was it Goliath – was too large –  
Or was myself – too small?

Emily Dickinson

* * *

In many of the tribes of south Utah, there is a prominent member known as a _teller._ Often someone too old or too frail to hunt or forage, they are the keeper of the tribe's history—battles won and lost, ancestors new and old. The teller of the Sidewinder clan was a woman called Lupe: born blind, she was never far from the camp, and this had left her with an uncommon capacity for stories.

 _Lupita, Lupita,_ the children would regularly clamour, _Tell us our history._

For these tales were not presented as fairy stories, but lessons; warnings that the children would do well to heed. There was a house with the legs of a bird; sharp-toothed fish who would whisper of a rich kingdom underwater; a regent who turned every horse in his kingdom to sea foam. There were crows who would speak the sweet words of men, and foxes who would steal away infants as easily as they would take the food from their mouths.

On this day the sun sat hot red in the sky and the children cross-legged in the dirt, swatting at the lazy mosquitoes which buzzed around their heads.

“ _Tche, tche,”_ Lupe told the children, a command to settle, and reluctantly they quietened in anticipation of her tale. Today it was the story of the selkie—a woman of the sea—Lupe’s accent drawing the word out to _sill-key._

_“There once was a man who worked as a fisherman, setting out each morning to the largest splay of water you can imagine. He worked tirelessly from early in the morning until the sun had long set–in fact, he worked so diligently that he left no time to find himself a wife. The man had enough food to eat, clothes to wear, and a good house to his name. But still he was saddened, for he had no wife to cook his meals, to wash his clothes, and to share his bed in the cold nights._

_“One evening, unable to sleep, the man decided to walk along the seashore, normally deserted at this time in the day. But when his feet passed over the sand dunes they froze, for his eyes had caught the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Skin painted silver in the moonlight, hair long and loose, a body lithe and bare. The man was transfixed, moving as if hypnotised, and soon he found himself in the woman's arms. For hours, they danced with the seafoam at their feet, until at last they were both sodden and shivering. Not wishing the night to end, the man asked her back to his home to allow her to warm up, and the woman gratefully agreed. With her she brought an exquisite silver coat of the richest and warmest material the man had ever seen. She hung it to dry by the fire, and as they lay together in the man's bed, a plan began to form in his mind. For you see, the man recognised the coat, and realised the woman was a selkie: a maiden of water, who relied on her sealskin to assume her true form—without it, she would be forced to remain on land._

_"Early the next morning, the selkie rose and went to fetch her coat, intending to re-join her brethren in the sea. But she woke to tragedy, for while she slept, the man had taken her beautiful coat and cut it to shreds, every last scrap hidden away. Devastated, the selkie cried for three days straight, refusing food and water. But eventually, having found herself with no other choice, she agreed to marry the man, and they lived together in peace for many years._

_"The selkie proved to be a good wife, and she was dutiful to the man: every day she washed and mended his clothes, fetched fresh food from the market and cooked him hearty meals. But she had a secret: each morning when her husband left to trawl the sea, she too would trawl for what had been taken from her. As the months passed, she found first one patch, then another, and another, and sewed them together until her coat was almost restored. But despite looking high and low, two pieces remained lost, and eventually she gave up in despair._

_"Then, one rainy and misty morning, the man woke late. He rushed from the house as quickly as he could, eager to reach the fishing boat before it left for the day; indeed, he was in such a hurry that he didn't stop to eat breakfast, or even to put on his shoes!"_ At this, Lupe would make several bumbling gestures and the children would laugh, the noise high and flighty on the warm air. _"On that day, the selkie went through her chores as usual, tidying the house and preparing her husband's evening meal. But, as she went to put his boots away from where they were lying in the doorway, her eyes widened in shock... for there, tucked neatly into each shoe, were the last two pieces of her coat._

_"The selkie glanced to the window and to her terror realised that the sun was beginning to set: there would be little time left until her husband returned home. As swift as a bird, she took her coat from where she had hidden it under their bed, and pricked her finger bloody in her haste to affix the last two pieces. Finally, as the room descended into darkness, she held up her coat and saw it complete once more. Pressing it tight to her side, the selkie ran to the shore, wrapping the coat around her and diving into the sea just as her husband, on the deck of the fishing boat, caught sight of the scene. In desperation he too threw himself into the water, but he was too late: the selkie was long gone. Every night for the rest of his life the man would walk the shoreline, calling for his wife to return to him, but she never did."_

The children would cheer and hoot, kicking their feet to celebrate the selkie's escape, before promptly calling for another story. But for all their excitement, there remained one boy who was quiet. Even at that tender age, Vulpes Inculta knew the man was a fool: any creature could be held for the rest of its life, but only if one was clever enough to keep it.

And now, having passed hours pacing the length of the apartment, he thinks not to his own failings, but to those of his wife—actions driven by sheer arrogance, hubris, _stupidity_ in thinking herself able to outsmart him. The fury he feels is cold, sliding through his veins as snakes, and it is one which he knows he will stew on for hours—days, if necessary. This transgression, he will not forget.

***

With the dog’s breath hot on her face, Fausta lies trembling, barely daring to breathe. It is only when a man’s voice snaps at it – _Aello, desine!_ – that the hound retreats, ears perked and eyes fixed sharp on her.

“You can come out now,” the stranger says, sounding bored. "I was told not to hurt you.”

 _Your husband wants to do it himself._ The words are unspoken but linger between them – a silent, mutual understanding of what awaits her back in their apartment. Fausta wonders what Vulpes will do; exactly how he will punish her. She has never before been at the end of his wrath.

As she moves to pull herself from the hole, the sand grating and warm under her fingertips, she considers her approach: whether she should emerge timid and shaken, ready to cry and beg his forgiveness for a flight of insanity. Mentally she runs through her lines: _I don’t know what I was thinking. The moment I left the Strip I knew it was a mistake, but I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I only hid when I heard the nightstalkers howling, I—_

The excuses are transparent even to her own ears, but her lies have always been thin. Their life together is a farce; a silent agreement that she will play her part, and he his. Forgiveness hinges not on his faith in her, but rather on his generosity: his willingness to brush over the cracks and swallow her words one by one. But as she shifts from her temporary hide, she realises she cannot tell herself that he will be in a giving mood upon her return. Regardless, her hand has been played, and obediently she crawls out with the dirt hot against her bloodied palms, raising them to the air in a peace-making gesture as she stands.

The soldier looks tired, shadows set heavy under his eyes; sluggishly he runs a hand over his face, palm scratching over his sandy beard. When he speaks, his accent is of Vegas, and Fausta wonders how many before her he has sent to death.

“Good. If you follow me, we can make this quick and easy. I don’t think either of us want to deal with handcuffs.”

As she takes a step towards him the dog growls low and long, sun gleaming on its yellowed teeth. And suddenly, before her Fausta sees two paths – each spiralling forth to infinity. When she moves, it is thoughtless, instinctual—she turns on her heel and bolts. Her body is stiff—aching from the night spent curled into the cold ground—but she forces her legs to obey, heart thundering as she determines to put as much distance between them as this world will allow.

She played softball, in the vault; captained the girls' team all those years ago. She was stronger then, quicker, braver, but her body still remembers the steady rhythm it was trained into—feet barely touching the ground as adrenaline floods her veins.

Her first kiss was under the bleachers, hours after a game—clandestine, but scandalous just the same: all bruised knees and flushed cheeks and whisky soft on their lips. Jenny'd swiped a half-bottle from her dad's liquor cabinet, cheap amber that caught in their throats and spun their heads—liquid courage that finally, finally was enough to let them touch, fingers tangling like vines. Clumsily, they had explored one other—neophyte cartographers in the dim grey light of the playing field.

But the vault opened, and Jenny moved to California, and the girl she'd kissed had stupidly, stupidly stayed. The memory is old but it hurts all the same, and as Fausta runs she can taste the alcohol warm on her tongue, feel the burning blend in her throat and lungs as they begin to strain. She could cry, she thinks, in frustration and fear and pain. And as her legs begin to stutter, the tunic hitched high around her thighs, there is a perfect blinding moment wherein she realises that in the end, she never truly had a chance.

For she is fast, but the dog is faster. The dogs are always faster.

***

When Vulpes Inculta’s wife is returned to him, the sun has not yet peaked in the sky. Hours he has paced the thin carpet of the apartment, a headache beating dull behind his eyes—when the door sounds, he strides to it without thought. Awaiting him is Augustus, tall and stoic; next to him, the shivering and dirtied waif of his wife. With a nod Vulpes grants her entrance, and she passes lightly over the threshold, head bowed as if in penance.

To Augustus, he hands a small pile of gold coins, an agreement passing unspoken between them that this incident is to be forgotten. The soldier’s open palm is lined with callouses—the mark of a hard worker—and he nods in deference as he exits the apartment. Quiet, and discreet. The man was a good choice.

Left alone with his wife once more, Vulpes considers. Scars trace her skin as lines upon a map—marks left from the earliest days of their reunion—and even now the only hands laid upon her have been her own. So much he has shielded her from, so much ugliness he has tried to spare her: he has tried, so very hard, to give her a life without fear. But he sees, now, that it was a mistake. Spare the rod, after all.

When he approaches, she flinches, backs herself against the wall; pressing forth he wraps his hand neat around that lily-white throat—firm but gentle, a threat yet to be executed. His thumb rests on a vein, her pulse high and fluttering as the wings of a bird.

“Try that again,” he says softly, words so light they are barely there, “and I’ll have you branded.”

It is a moment before she answers, gathering herself before squaring her shoulders and looking bright into his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

A bold display, but her body betrays her—pulse skipping as a stone over water. He is struck by the absurdity of the scene, the transparency of her display, and it pulls a laugh rough from his throat. A lamb bleats at a wolf.

“Oh darling,” he says lightly, leaning close enough that his face brushes hers. “I am not your enemy here.” Without warning, his hand tightens around her throat, a steady, even pressure that she flinches against. “You are _disposable_ to me. If I tire of you—and believe me, you have worn my patience thin—you’ll be thrown to the wolves. Death would be a reprieve.”

When he draws back, body resting light against hers, the face that meets him is pale and fearful.

“Do you need me to elaborate?” he asks, and she shakes her head. Swiftly he withdraws, and without the weight of his hand at her throat she almost collapses to the floor. Any courage left to her has long since been dispelled, and he is almost disappointed at the ease of subduing her.

“Go and wash,” he says quietly, stepping back.

Fausta moves to leave, but his hand on her arm stops her. Vulpes looks for a moment, considers, before cracking a hand hard across her face. The force sends her reeling, hand flying instinctively to her reddened mouth.

“That,” he says softly, dispassionately, “is for taking my uniform.”

***

With the sand scrubbed from her skin, Fausta has little idea of what to do with herself. The bedroom—in much the same state as she left it only the night before—offers few distractions: while she knows, really, that time will not blunt her husband’s anger, she cannot bring herself to face him just yet. Instead she consoles herself with the small tasks available to her—straightening the bedsheets and taking her time in smoothing out each crease; fluffing air into each pillow until they look new. A sudden shattering comes from the other side of the door—too delicate for a plate; a glass perhaps—and Fausta freezes, eyes wide and fixed on the door handle. A minute passes in silence, then another, and gradually her heartbeat slows. With no clear threat it is as if every muscle in her body loosens at once; knees weak, she sits heavy on the bed and allows herself to fall back, eyes sliding closed. Safe in her own private darkness, she tries to focus on her breath, her heartbeat, the feeling of the comforter under her fingertips.

Lying there, she thinks about despair as if it were something she could hold in her hands, grey and warm, pliable and smooth; something she could take and turn and examine, something she could rip from her chest and shred to pieces. But such anguish digs in its claws, she knows this: a tick that buries deep and sucks its host dry; to remove it is not so easy as that. Blood-bloated and heavy, it curls in the shell of her ear, whispering. _Tell me, was it worth it?_ The question thrumming at the back of her head, and doubtless sitting like venom on the tip of her husband’s tongue. _Was it right, to slide your chips to one small square?_ The answer spreads through her like the sky darkening to dusk; the slow acceptance of the leg caught in the snare. Intention is irrelevant, she tells her small companion; simply, she was wrong to be caught.

Rising, she tugs at the hem of her dress, straightens the bedside table books, pulls the curtains closed against the midday sun. Before long her hands are empty once more and in upturning her palms, the puckered cuts stare back at her, lines crooked and red like ugly little mouths. The pain is an abstraction, now; her mind is elsewhere. Regardless they sting as she enters the living room; vaguely, she imagines them as opening themselves to sing. But no music greets her, no flames, no fireworks, no displays of anger or disappointment. Instead Vulpes leans by the counter, arms crossed and expression stony; silent, he gestures for her to sit.

"Here," he says flatly, placing a glass of water in front of her. "You'll be dehydrated."

For a moment she considers it, eyes flitting from his face to the unassuming drink. She wonders if it will be drugged, laced with hemlock, thorn apple, snakeroot—botanicals hand-picked to slowly rot her insides. The edge of Vulpes’ mouth twitches, and Fausta quickly sips before he can notice her hesitation.

“Are you hungry?”

Unsure of how to respond, she takes another mouthful of water to avoid answering. “Yes.”

Nodding, he turns back to the counter, cracking eggs with a methodical neatness; when he drops them to the hot pan, the sound is like the wind through riverside reeds.

When she eats he watches her, careful and silent, and while the smell alone makes the black bile in her stomach churn, she does not dare decline it. Halfway through, a piece of eggshell grinds grainy against her teeth; pondering, she runs her tongue around its sharp edges, testing its perimeter, waiting for the moment when he will look away and she can slip it to her plate. But his white-hot eyes never leave her, and eventually she has no choice but to swallow it, face blank as it scrapes down her throat.

The following hours pass in silence, Vulpes at his desk and she in silent angst, waiting for the punishment which she knows is inevitable—he is not one to forgive so easily. The purgatory is overwhelming, the trapping in her own head: Fausta picks at the skin around her fingertips until they bleed, wondering if he is simply waiting for whatever poison he has picked to enter her system, ready to tower over her as cud froths from her lips. Would he let her die, after all this? Her tell-tale heart skitters at the thought and she almost speaks, but when she opens her mouth, she can find no words within herself to address him. Instead she sits and folds and unfolds her hands, not daring even to clear her throat for fear of disturbing him.

It is an eternity before he finally moves; an arbitrary moment and he closes the ledger on his desk, stretches, stands. Wordlessly he steps to the bedroom and gestures for her to follow; a part of her screams to run again, to sprint without pause until she is free or dead, but her body moves of its own accord, bare feet light on the thin carpet, and she hovers passively in the doorway as her husband draws a chair from the balcony, angling it to the window.

“Sit,” he instructs, and she does, the low sun forcing her eyes almost closed. Behind her there is the sound of movement; she turns to see, but the moment she shifts his voice comes again, cold and firm. “Face ahead.” And she does.

Gathering her hands in her lap, nails digging into her palms, she tries to focus on the distant horizon—empty and golden. She can hear Vulpes stepping towards her, pausing a moment at her back. With an unexpected tenderness he sweeps her hair from her face, gathering it tight at the nape of her neck; before Fausta can begin to process what is happening there is a cold metallic swipe as the scissors close, and her heart drops—her head suddenly, unbearably lighter. She is frozen, unable to move, and her husband’s words seem to come from miles away, coiling tight and cold around her chest.

“Legion women wear their hair long. You have proven, yet again, that you are far from able to hold the title of one.”

Distantly she hears him leave, hears the apartment door click shut behind him, but she cannot bring herself to move, the minutes stretching long as cats in the sun. Eventually her fingers trail to meet the ragged ends of her hair: clumped and uneven, strands clutching to the sides of her face in a way they have not done in years; feeling suddenly claustrophobic, she brushes them away, realising with a start that they will not sit neat behind her shoulders as they once did.

Without the strength to look at her reflection, she stumbles to the bed and curls there, shame sitting heavy in her chest—for she knows it is not just her vanity at stake, but her reputation. Long, loose hair conveys status; it demands respect. It says, _My husband is an important man_. Now, already distrusted amongst the other women, she knows this will mark her as the subject of gossip for weeks to come. And no matter how much she tells herself that it is a superficial concern, that there are a thousand worse things that he could have done to her, she cannot help the hot tears stinging at her face. Another door closed. Another part of her unceremoniously stripped away.

As the sun sinks below the horizon, Fausta curls into an ochre blanket, pulling it over her head and cocooning herself in a small, soft world with only her breath for company. There, she lets herself cry—ugly, heaving sobs that will leave her eyes swollen and blotched. She is no more than a child here—a privileged, spoilt child who should be grateful for her lot—and as the apartment door slams shut once more, Fausta cannot help but think about how cruel life can be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aello, desine! - Whirlwind, stop!
> 
> Hi all, I know this chapter took forever to get out so thanks for bearing with me. Hope you and yours are all doing okay in these strange times.


End file.
